


The Great Pretender or A Man with (at least two) Secrets

by Makkoska



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Not angry sex, Quote: We're On Our Own Side (Good Omens), bit of action scenes, bit of angst, non-human au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25450579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makkoska/pseuds/Makkoska
Summary: The demon Crowley is seeing Mr Fell, a peculiar and fascinating bookshop owner. He knows the man has secrets, but doesn’t quite realize the extent of them.Or: It’s London, the 21st century. An ethereal and an occult creature meet and fall in love without realizing they are missing essential information about the other.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 227
Kudos: 449
Collections: Courts GO Re-Reads, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a non-human AU where Aziraphale and Crowley meets recent years. There's no Apocalypse in sight. 
> 
> Breaking my own rule (and not for the first time), I'm starting to post this as a WiP. I do have a good chunk written though, so I hopeful for speedy updates.

“This is just a misunderstanding,” Crowley says with a grin he hopes is charming, but suspects is failing on that account miserably. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret later.” He pushes his glasses back on his nose - one of the lenses is cracked but mostly still covers his yellow snake-eyes. Not that the angel facing him has any doubts of his identity. Or maybe he thinks it’s better to smite a human than to let a demon run. Crowley wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. “If we can just calm ourselves and…”

He twists away just in time to avoid the holy wrath directed at him. It looks a lot like a flaming, golden hammer, not unlike something one can see in video games. (He looked into video games in the mid-2000s when he wanted to claim having a hand in their success. He ended up playing World of Warcraft, not eating, drinking or sleeping _at all_ for a year straight. He always hated paladins.) If he had breath to spare, he’d comment sarcastically on the cliché of the angel’s attack. He doesn’t, as he’s too busy landing on all fours and scurrying behind a car. 

The car park is abandoned - Crowley is sure the humans will be confused tomorrow to find their vehicles damaged but no record on the security footage of what might have happened to them. He sympathizes. He would be absolutely furious if something happened to his precious Bentley and he couldn’t even find the bastard who damaged her. 

The angel’s heels click on the cold cement as he walks closer. Long, measured steps - he’s not in a hurry, he knows he has the demon cornered. Crowley can see his boots as he peeks out from under the car. Light, beige calf leather, with a slight heel. Armani, he thinks. The flash bastard. Crowley himself owns a similar pair - in black, of course - but he’s a demon for Someone’s sake. 

He rolls to the side with a move he saw in the latest James Bond movie, whips out his gun from his jacket (he has a secret holster for it and everything, he was really proud when he got it. He might have spent quite the time before a mirror, practicing looking cool with the gun) and fires as the angel appears in his line of vision. The bullet shoots out at a wide angle, not really in his opponent's direction. Crowley should have known better than to believe Hollywood. (Maybe he should have practiced instead of posing.)

With an unarticulated yell he jumps to his feet and launches himself at the other. The angel is unprepared for such an unsophisticated attack and Crowley tackles him to the ground with surprising ease. The handsome, unnaturally symmetrical face is twisted in rage as he raises his hand to smite the demon. Crowley, fuelled by fear for his sheer existence, is faster. He brings down the barrel of his gun with all the force he can muster. The angel doesn’t even look particularly dizzy as it collides with his forehead. Crowley jerks his arm back and fires. His hands are shaking but from this close up even he can’t miss. 

The angel slumps on the ground, his long, golden curls spilling out behind him, swiftly getting matted with blood and scattered pieces of … other stuff (Crowley refuses to put a name on it even in his own mind), his sapphire eyes dull and dead. Crowley rolls away, pushing himself up on his arms, retching and sobbing. He didn’t _kill_ anyone, he tells himself, but has a hard time calming down. He just discorporated an angel who wanted to banish him for good. He’ll hopefully get a thorough scolding in Heaven and will have a hard time getting a new body. Crowley himself can spin the right tale and get a commendation. And a sabbatical, hopefully. 

He only turns back to the body when it starts to glow in a bright, warm light. Even with his shades on his eyes burn, but he keeps watching as the dead corporation of the angel evaporates. There’s nothing left in its wake, no body, no blood, no tiny pieces of bones from a skull and no scattered pieces of stuff (brain). Crowley is left alone, sitting on the cold floor of an underground car park in Milton Keynes. 

He stands on long, shaky legs, feeling like a baby giraffe taking its first steps. He pushes his glasses on his forehead to wipe his face clear of tears and picks his gun up from the ground. He needs to get going.

He doesn’t remember how he gets home. He surely couldn’t have walked all the way to Mayfair, so he must have caught a taxi. But there’s no memory of the time that passed between him staggering out from the car park and standing in his bathroom, staring at the mirror.

Snake eyes stare back at him, blankly. There are dark circles underneath them. He splashes ice cold water on his face and wanders out to his living room to pour a generous amount of Glenfiddich for himself. He drowns it, decides to forgo the glass and slumps down on his couch, cradling the bottle close to his chest. What a day. It must be Monday. He never liked Mondays. 

He glances at his incredibly expensive watch which confirms it’s indeed Monday, though just barely as it’s only ten minutes to midnight. He was playing a deadly hide and seek for the best part of his evening. Crowley has no idea how the angel picked him out in the crowd - he prides himself for having a convincing cover not just when it comes to humans but in front of agents of Heaven as well. But this one, brimming with divine justice, noticed and chased him through half of London. 

They are getting more aggressive lately, the angels. Centuries used to go by without meeting any, but both Heaven and Hell stepped up their game in the last decade or so. “The End Times are here,” Crowley heard on the last team meeting he couldn’t avoid attending. He wishes he paid more attention, but it was just after Candy Crush first came out, so he was naturally otherwise occupied, trying to beat the levels on his phone without drawing attention to what he was doing. That way it was the least depressing meeting with his colleagues he ever had, but in retrospect, they might have been sharing important information. But who knew they’d start being useful after six millennia?

After the third, increasingly alarmed notification he sent to Hell, alerting, worrying and panicking about the number of angels he started to spot throughout London, he finally received a cold-worded call from Dagon (on the telly, interrupting Love Island. Most demons just don’t get the differences between electric devices), reminding him that _as advised on the last meeting,_ this was expected. 

It used to be just him in London, catching up with travelling agents of Hell once in every five-ten-fifteen years, or even more rarely if he was lucky. Those quiet years seem to be over, and Crowley is meeting with his colleagues, his enemies and the network of humans working for them a lot more than he cares for. The exact goals driving this increased activity are still lost on Crowley, but he assumes it’s mostly about eliminating as many agents from the opposite side as possible for the “fun” of it. He hoped to claim an important temptation waiting for him somewhere far away - Haiti, preferably, but a remote village in Tibet sounded good at this point too - but was ordered to stay and put his local knowledge to use. He’s been living in London since the mid-nineteenth century, after all. 

Since then, Crowley has gotten incredibly good at recognising angels in the crowd of London and getting as far away from them as possible. (He can do this very fast, too.) It’s pretty easy, really. Otherworldly beauty, ethereal grace and smug self-satisfaction radiates off them. No agent of Heaven seemed to grasp the concept of undercover work. Demons were only marginally better. Crowley himself went local long ago, as Hastur and Lingur never failed to comment with a sneer. 

Nerves still rattled, but thoughts ironically clearer after the long gulps of single malt, he grabs his laptop and composes a memo for Head Office. He did eliminate one of the Enemy tonight after all, even if it’s just temporary discorporation. Surely there is paperwork to fill out in Heaven as well, reports to prepare, explanations to give, a new body to be assigned. Will be quite some time before the bastard can be back in the game. They met far away from Crowley’s place, so he can’t possibly get other angels on him. Everything will be alright, he tells himself. Everything _is_ alright. He spins his tale, fingers flying over the keyboard, leaving out the bits about him running for his life, hiding behind cars and his less than graceful attempts of using a gun, and highlighting his diabolical cleverness in getting the upper hand in the fight.

Memo sent, he puts his laptop away and lays down on his couch. He clicks the remote until he finds something loud and colourful playing and settles in more comfortably, ready to fall asleep on it.

It’s already well past midnight, which is a comforting thought. It turned Tuesday and Tuesdays are considerably better than Mondays. Especially lately since he’s started a new hobby. He is visiting a certain bookshop on Tuesdays.

Or, more accurately, he is visiting a certain bookshop owner on Tuesdays. 

Now, bookshops and bookshop owners are not typically Crowley’s area of interests. He stumbled into the dusty little store in Soho a few weeks ago, when it started to pour, and he wanted to protect his fresh haircut. He was greeted by a fussy little man, who seemed quite concerned with him dripping over his precious, dull old books. First impressions, of course, can be deceiving. The shop itself wasn’t small at all (although it _was_ dusty) and the owner, Mr Fell, while certainly fussy, proved to be the most interesting human Crowley has talked to in decades.

There was just something about him - he was old-fashioned, eccentric, peculiar and he fascinated Crowley. He just loved strange humans - the harmless ones at least. The few mortal friends he made throughout his long time on Earth were the type. Artists, free thinkers. Fell looked like he couldn’t swat a fly, but he was unapologetically different than most people Crowley has ever talked to. 

He seemed strangely reassured when Crowley told him he has no interest in buying any of his books but got quite agitated by his claim that reading is a waste of time. They were arguing before long and Crowley realised with a start, they were both enjoying it. They ended up discussing Shakespeare, not quite liking the same plays and not agreeing whether they should be seen or read. They then somehow ventured over to Austen’s books versus their adaptations, and though Crowley never cared for them in any form, he found himself launching a thorough defence on Colin Firth’s Mr Darcy. He left long after the rain had stopped and made a point to visit every week since. 

If someone asks, he’s on a job. Fell, as it became obvious early on, has A Secret. Or maybe Several Secrets. And where secrets are hidden, temptations can be accomplished, and souls can be claimed. 

But if nobody asks - and luckily, they aren’t - Crowley is visiting purely for his own benefit. Fell is an egg he wants to crack, a man he wants to tempt into spilling his secrets for purely his own benefit and not for Hell’s gain. 

Speaking about temptations, the man is unexpectedly attractive. Crowley has spent way too much time on Earth to care about preferred aesthetics of a body as they keep changing with time, but there are certain traits that are agelessly pleasing for him. A nice smile, a sharp wit, a gentle voice. Being just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing. Fell doesn’t lack any of that. Also, the more time Crowley spends in his presence, the more he appreciates his looks. He’s handsome with his fair skin and hair, with the lines crinkling in the corners of his eyes when he smiles. He’s so soft and warm looking, Crowley wants to burrow into his embrace and let him heat his cold body up. 

The memory of the angel he shot still haunts him, but he can cope better with it now. He chases away the memory of golden locks matted with blood by recalling pale curls instead and wonders if they are a result of age or a dye. Would the man bleach his hair? He doesn’t seem the type, but who knows? He refuses to think about a cold, sapphire gaze pinpointing him in the crowd and focusing on him with murderous intent and rather wonders if Fell’s eyes are really grey, or would they be a gentle blue if Crowley took off his glasses when he looks into them. 

He falls asleep at one point and wakes only late in the morning. He’s lying on his stomach, face buried in a pillow, a leg dangling off from the couch. He snaps his fingers to make the small pool of drool disappear, (bodies are so disillusioning sometimes) and reminds his arm that spent the night tucked under him at an awkward angle that it doesn’t actually need blood, so can very well just wake up too. 

He takes a shower and casts a couple of miracles on his hair, until he’s satisfied it’s styled in the perfect way. He wanders out and gives his customary morning motivational speech to his plants, realizing too late he’d look more threatening with clothes on. Luckily, the plants know what’s best for them and shake appropriately in their pots. 

He heads to his bedroom and spends a ridiculous amount of time on deciding what to wear. He usually just miracles his clothes for the day into existence, but he does own a few designer pieces in their physical selves, like his Armani leather boots and jacket. Miracling something similar looking would be akin to wearing a fake one, after all. He prides himself for having a hand in the rise and sometimes the fall of some high-fashion brands, and that wouldn’t do. 

He ends up with a mix - snaps his fingers and is covered in skin-tight dark denims and a silk shirt, but puts on his snake-buckle belt, shoes, his watch and jacket the human way. He finishes his look with his caged, mirrored sunglasses to hide his eyes. Ready for the show, he points finger guns at the mirror. Pretty neat if he can say so himself. Fell will be swept off his feet.

The real gun remains in the flat. He’s meeting an almost-friend… he’s going on a date, if he wants to be optimistic, one just doesn’t carry firearms around to such occasions. He also doesn’t think he’ll have the stomach to fire it anytime soon again. 

The Bentley plays him Queen, of course. Crowley raises his eyebrows at her over Crazy Little Thing Called Love, but still hums along. He parks just in front of the shop, ignoring, as usual, all the traffic signs telling him he can’t possibly do that.

A.Z. Fell and Co. Antiquarian and Unusual Books, the banner says. He asked, on his third visit, what A.Z. stands for. 

“They are my initials,” Fell blinked at him as if unsure about the question. 

“I gathered as much,” Crowley smirked, leaning against the counter. The man never moved away, no matter how much the demon got into his personal space. “But _what do they stand for?_ Look, it’s only fair; I’m Anthony J. Crowley. So, what’s your full name?”

“Anthony?” Fell asked back instead of an answer, wrinkling his nose.

“You don’t like it?” Crowley was suddenly unsure. He quite liked the name he gave himself, but it wouldn’t be the first time he messed up some human custom. Maybe Anthony became a female name over the last century or something. 

“No, no, I didn’t say that,” Fell quickly reassured. “I’ll get used to it. I just started to think about you as Crowley.”

“Crowley is fine,” he grinned. He liked the sound of that, Fell thinking about him. “So… what’s yours? A…?”

“A...err,” Fell stammered, then tried to recover. “Arthur. A is for Arthur. Arthur Z. Fell.” He nodded to himself, as if that would make such an obvious lie more believable. 

Crowley, naturally, refused to call him _Arthur_. It just became one of those things that made him come back again and again. What was the man’s real name and why did he keep it a secret? 

(Fond of modern human technology that made actual personal contact so unnecessary, he Googled him, of course. He found a few reviews on Yelp complaining about rude service in the shop and a small forum praising the man’s skill in hunting down and restoring rare books. Nothing personal and nothing about his name. He couldn’t find any social media accounts, but no surprise there.)

The old-fashioned bell above the door makes a happy jingle when he struts in, making sure he has _that_ swing to his hips. It never fails to draw Fell’s eyes onto him. It’s a wasted effort this time, because as usual, he can’t see anyone at first - the shop is a bit of a labyrinth, books on shelves, in piles, mismatched, ancient-looking furniture cluttering the space, trinkets all around. 

Partially it’s the cosy chaos that draws Crowley in - everything about the place, including the opening hours, is defying logic. 

He finally spots the man behind the counter. Fell looks up, smiles, and that, Satan save him, lights up the whole place. Crowley’s heart (useless little organ, normally he’s not even aware of its existence), lurches painfully in his chest. He manages not to stumble but to swagger up to him smoothly. (more or less)

“Good morning, Crowley.”

“Hello, Fell,” he forces his own, genuine smile back into a more appropriate smirk. “It’s hardly morning anymore, though.”

“Technically,” the man takes out a golden pocket watch, something Crowley hasn't seen for a century, to check the time, “it’s half an hour to go till noon, so it still counts as the morning.” 

“Does that mean,” Crowley leans on the counter, one eyebrow raised high above the rim of his shade, “It’s too early to tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

Fell gives him one of _those_ glances - ducking his chin and looking up at him from behind pale eyelashes - that unexpectedly turns his knees into jelly. The posture seems shy, but it’s not. It’s coy and playful, making Crowley feel they are playing a game where he’s not entirely sure of the rules, but enjoys it, nonetheless. 

“I might be persuaded into closing early for lunch,” he says slowly. Crowley doesn’t comment how he couldn’t have opened more than an hour ago. He’s already found out that as far as Fell is concerned it’s never too late to open and never too early to close the shop. 

“What do you say about the new Greek place on the corner?” where Crowley already made sure will be a table waiting for them.

“That’s a superb idea, my dear,” Fell rises slightly on the tip of his toes and gives a _wiggle._ It’s a gesture he does, Crowley has realized, when he’s pleased or excited about something. It should be ridiculous - it _is_ ridiculous, this whole human is, yet, at the same time he’s not. “Let me close the shop and off we go in a jiffy.” (In a _jiffy,_ Crowley mutters to himself, more bewildered than mocking.)

He comes around the counter and gently pats Crowley’s arm as he passes him. Crowley can’t help but fondly stare after him, then he firmly reminds himself that he’s a demon in an Armani leather jacket for Someone’s sake, while the other is a stocky, middle-aged man in a threadbare waistcoat and a _tartan bow tie._ His attire is so out of fashion, Crowley is not sure it was _ever_ in fashion. Crowley would do very well to remember he’s the cool one here. 

The new Greek place is good, at least Fell seems to enjoy it well enough. Crowley himself sticks to strong, black coffee, several cups of them (adding sugar when he thinks Fell isn’t looking), a few olives and some pita when Fell insists he should eat something too. He mostly watches him eat from behind the safety of his dark glasses. This is the fifth Tuesday he takes him out to lunch and he still gets the most pleasant shivers when Fell makes small, appreciating sounds and says things like “this was scrummy.”

(It’s not a thing Crowley normally does, staring at humans while they eat. He didn’t even watch Eve and Adam finish their apple. It’s really just Fell.)

“So, how have you been, since we last met, my dear boy?” Fell asks, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin delicately. Crowley sometimes get confused with the changing customs of the expected behaviours of human society and how it differs for the sexes, but even he can’t miss how unapologetically gay the other man is. It’s the little mannerisms, the endearments he calls him, “dear” and “dear boy” and last but definitely not least, how he never fails to size him up, obvious and appreciating. An attention he always preens under.

“Ngk, meh, you know. Work, mostly.” He told Fell he was a _freelancer,_ and the man accepted that without further questions. “Had a truly horrible day yesterday. Run into a… very aggressive bastard from the competition. Was absolutely knackered afterwards.”

“I know how it is,” Fell reaches out to offer a sympathetic pat and then just leaves his hand resting on Crowley’s. His palm is warm and soft. The whole man is warm and soft. It’s fortunate he has cool and unaffected down to an art form, it helps him to disguise how he’s melting from this simple gesture. How the man manages to have such an effect on him, he does not know. “Sometimes one’s own colleges can be a bit… too much. Competition though - better not to mention them at all.”

“I haven’t realized book dealers are such a difficult bunch,” Crowley aims to be sarcastic, but suspects the smile lurking in the corners of his lips is as soft as Fell’s hand. Which is still on his. He glances down to confirm. He wonders if he should turn his hand up to weave their fingers together. 

“Oh, you have no idea. Incredibly difficult,” grey-blue eyes twinkle at him. Crowley melts a bit further. 

He has to do something about this _situation,_ he knows. He thinks he’s dating Fell - he’s almost sure he does. The thing is, it’s not something he has any experience in. Over six millennia he of course had affairs, for lack of a better word, with humans. It used to be easier, back when there weren’t so many of them, and the world wasn’t so well connected. Crowley met someone who fascinated him, he stayed around a while and if the human was interested maybe they had sex. (But rarely - Crowley tended to care and become attached and that was a bad move for a demon. And humans _died_ and then they were gone for _good,_ a horrible design fault. 

He never gets involved after temptations. That’s strictly business.)

What he’s doing here, taking Fell out on regular lunches and wondering if he should have brought flowers, if he should hold his (soft, warm) hand when they walk back to the bookshop later, if Fell would welcome him leaning in and kissing him goodbye? He has no idea, but he keeps doing it.

He’s not the usual type Crowley gets fascinated by. He’s no Leonardo da Vinci or Freddie Mercury. He hardly knows anything about him, other than his love for books and dislike of their movie adaptations. 

“How old are you?” he blurts out, effectively interrupting Fell, who’s happily telling him about some rare book he purchased over the last week. He frowns at Crowley disapprovingly, and withdraws his hand. “It’s just, nghh” he hastens to explain “I don’t know much about you, do I? Thought we can, you know. Get to know each other.”

“Ah, yes, quite right.” Fell clasps his hands in front of him, fingers twisting nervously. “That’s only fair, I guess. I’m, ah, 45.” 

Crowley has the feeling that 45 is about as real as _Arthur_ is. It could annoy him, he guesses, but really, it just deepens his interest further. He leans back in his chair, arm thrown over the backseat and grins slowly.

“We’re about the same age then,” he offers his own lie, just he’s so much better at it. He picks up his cup and takes a long sip, maintaining eye contact. (He has the feeling Fell can tell that somehow, even with the glasses on.)

“Oh, surely that can’t be quite right. You must be considerably younger,” Fell smiles back and gives him an absolutely unfair and very open once-over. Crowley almost chokes on his coffee. The man looks way too pleased with himself.

“You can’t know that,” he does his best to recover his cool, “maybe I’m _ancient,_ just keeping it together really well.”

“In that case I simply _must_ know your secret, my dear,” Fell says and then they both burst into a laugh. 

The conversation steers away from personal questions and Crowley doesn’t push. He insists on paying for lunch like he always does and Fell lets him, as usual. They walk back to the bookshop and although Crowley chickens out from trying to take his hand in the end, they keep close to each other, arms and shoulders brushing. There’s a warm feeling inside his chest. It’s more anxiety than anything else, but it still feels right somehow. Spending time with Fell feels like the thing to do. 

“Do you have plans for tomorrow?” he asks with a sudden flare of courage when he says his goodbye. “I could take you out for dinner. I know we just had lunch, but dinner’s nice, isn’t it? Obviously, no pressure, and I don’t know if you had anything planned, also it’s the middle of the week…”

Fell takes his hand, effectively stopping his rambling.

“That would be nice, dear boy,” he says, and they are standing so close, starting at each other. Crowley wonders if it would be rude, leaning in and kissing him. Should he ask it first? Doesn’t that take away the spontaneous heat the moment should have? Is it rude to kiss someone with sunglasses on? Certainly, it’s bound to be somewhat awkward. Fell has never asked why he always wears them. Maybe as a man with Secrets (at least two, name and age) he accepts that Crowley hides things too. 

The bell above the door jingles. Fell takes a step back and glares at the intruding customers. Crowley represses a disappointed sigh.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 7?”

“That will be wonderful. Where are we going?”

“Let that be a surprise,” Crowley says as he has no idea. 

“Oh, how lovely,” Fell beams his bright smile at him one last time and hurries off to see what the customers want and to stop them from touching his precious books, probably. Why the man owns a bookshop when he so obviously can’t stand the idea of selling them, is another mystery. 

Crowley waves his goodbye and steps out on the street with a smile he’d be very hard pressed to explain if any of his fellow demons would see. The Bentley continues with Good Old Fashioned Lover boy as he pulls into the early afternoon London traffic. 

_Dining at the Ritz, we'll meet at nine precisely_

_(One two three four five six seven eight nine o' clock)_

_I will pay the bill, you taste the wine_

_Driving back in style, in my saloon will do quite nicely_

_Just take me back to yours that will be fine (come on and get it)_

“The Ritz, you say?” Crowley asks his car. “Neat. I’m sure he’ll love that.”


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale starts his day early, as usual. He hums an upbeat little tune all the way through his morning routine in the bathroom, around his toothbrush, as he combs out his light curls, not that it makes them behave. He hums as he gives up on them as lost cause. He uses a generous amount of his new aftershave and cologne his barber has recently suggested. He smiles at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes twinkle back at him, bluer than usual. 

As he prepares his tea, he realizes he’s actually humming March of the Swiss Soldiers but that’s not enough to dim his cheerfulness today. Not that he has anything serious against Rossini, but the tune has been overused in commercials. He heard it in an advertisement on the radio yesterday and it has been stuck in his mind since. He has always thought it a shame, selling out classics for what? An increased sales figure of a new car model or something equally unseemly. One could argue that at least people will retain a familiarity with these tunes, but it still didn’t sit well with Aziraphale. (Most humans nowadays are inclined to listen to all kinds of bebop. They have their place of course, but they shouldn’t be a replacement of classics.)

In the end he gives in and makes his gramophone play William Tell as he prepares to open his shop. The ancient thing creaks and rattles, but it only takes one disapproving glance from Aziraphale for the sound to become crystal clear, as celestial harmonies. Just a lot more entertaining.

Normally Aziraphale is not so cheerful to open his shop. It’s only a facade after all, nothing but a cover for his real day-to-day job. More than that, while he loves books, he doesn’t like to sell them at all. Opening is usually a bother; people will come in, browse his books, touch them, try to buy them, sometimes try to steal them. They are only marginally better than the real-estate mafia men, who sometimes try to do the same with the whole shop. The cheek of some people. 

But just a couple of weeks ago he was given unexpected motivation to open at least now and then. In his line of work, Aziraphale can’t be anything but a believer of ineffable coincidence. Fate, as one might call it.

Crowley stumbled into the store on a dark and stormy Tuesday, looking for shelter from the sudden and violent rain. What started off as a mixture of feelings, the usual slight irritation at the sight of a new customer, alarm that his books might get wet and pity for the poor man to be caught in such horrible weather, quickly turned into joy over sharp-witted conversation. (Still, it was silly to walk around London without an umbrella. Rain tended to slide off from Aziraphale without getting him wet, but not all of Her creations were so naturally suited to live in England. He, of course, still owned an umbrella, to fit in better with the crowds and because he quite enjoyed its pleasant, tartan pattern. And it was automatic!)

Such a young man, he thought on that first Tuesday, with so well-formed opinions on good, old William, even if their taste quite differed. (Aziraphale appreciated the intricate tragedies while Crowley preferred the funny ones.) Crowley didn’t look like the humans Aziraphale met in book clubs _at all._ Nor did he resemble collectors. As it turned out, he didn’t even like to read. (The horror Aziraphale felt hearing that claim can’t really be translated to human terms.)

Aziraphale thought he knew they type. He’s been living in London for quite a while now, he saw the city grow huge, fast and expensive. Some of the humans struggled in such an environment, but some thrived; like he was sure Crowley did. Matching London’s pace with his fast and expensive lifestyle. Some flesh job (freelancer, as he learned later, whatever that meant in practice), numerous nights out in fancy places with loud music and flailing bodies that one can only call dancing with lots of generosity. (Did they call them discotheque nowadays?) Always dressed according to the latest fashion and having the most trendy haircut. (Not that Aziraphale was an expert, having stopped paying close attention to human fashion trends a while ago. He is sure that nothing will be able to beat the roaring 20s of the previous century for quite a while, so why bother?) He was sure this charming young man would forget about his unplanned visit to his bookshop come evening.

Except he didn’t. He was back the next Tuesday and every Tuesday since. 

Aziraphale was slow on the catch-up, but in his defence, it has been a long time since a human courted him and Crowley, the dear soul, is really rather bad at it. Or at least he’s unexpectedly shy, which is very endearing if a bit frustrating. Aziraphale, now that he has some idea where their weekly meetings are heading, gives him small encouragements but lets him lead at his own pace. He has, quite literally, all the time in the world, after all.

Of course, although not explicitly forbidden, it’s not advisable for an angel to pursue romantic interests with humans. Aziraphale’s colleges would never understand it; just as they never understood his love for good food, drinks, music and other pleasantries humanity has come up with. They have never understood his love for _humanity,_ if he wants to be honest. (Although he tries to avoid too much honesty on the matter.)

Aziraphale coped with the situation by avoiding bringing it up at all when he talked to other angels. (Aziraphale coped with the situation with not coping.) It used to be easy when centuries could pass without him meeting anyone ethereal or occult. London has, quite unfortunately, become a hotspot in recent decades, interrupting Aziraphale’s quite peaceful and pleasant life on Earth. Confrontation with agents of Hell has become a frequent occurrence, just as debriefing with his own side. He could do without both.

That moment, as if summoned by his very thoughts, an envelope pops into existence in his kitchen. A very un-angelic _fuck_ slips free from Aziraphale’s lips. He looks around guiltily - there’s nobody there to catch him on it, of course. He started the day in such a good mood and whatever is in the mail, it’s bound to ruin it. 

He picks it up with a sigh, considering for the briefest moment to pretend he never saw it. (But that’s not how it works, he knows it, and his superiors know it too.) The missive is from Gabriel, requesting his presence in the Headquarters _as soon as possible_. Aziraphale sighs again, drinks the remainder of his tea then grabs his coat. 

He stares out at the hustle and bustle of London on the long and boring bus ride and wonders what can be so urgent. Gabriel, although prone to show up unannounced now and then, is mostly a believer of meetings organized well in advance. Like angels in general he likes things to be predictable and orderly. Aziraphale, who definitely doesn’t like ad-hoc meetings with his boss and colleges, appreciates that. 

There’s no actual stop in front of the tall steel and glass office building, but the bus stops there nevertheless so Aziraphale can get off. (Nobody on the bus finds this odd, or, indeed, even notice.) Humans walk past the building without a second glance. Nobody unauthorized ever tried to enter.

The lobby is empty and deserted. Aziraphale has never encountered a single soul here. There’s an escalator right next to his usual one, leading _down._ He glances at the place he knows it is at, right under the shimmery surface of water he walks over. He makes himself not to think about it. It’s just one of those things he has to accept as it is, without looking for an explanation. At times of doubt, it’s always the best not to speculate. It’s the only safe option. 

Upstairs, the angel at the reception desk checks him in and directs him to a bright white meeting room. Aziraphale looks around in surprise - most of the chairs are already taken by what seems to be all the field agents not just from London, but probably the whole British Isles. A few more angels hurry in after Aziraphale, then Gabriel appears at the front of the large, oval table. Dressed in an impeccable light grey suit as usual, but without his customary wide and dishonest smile. His reflection is crystal clear in the polished surface of the tabletop. Aziraphale finds it rather distracting. (As if he is watching two Gabriels. One tends to be more than enough.)

“Well, hello everyone, thank you for coming here on such a short notice and being so on time... at least in most cases,” he doesn’t look at Aziraphale and the other late arrivals, but the reproach is there in his voice. “You must be wondering the reason for this urgent meeting. I’m afraid I have no good news to share.” He sighs theatrically. A tense silence falls over the room. “As you well know, the Enemy has started to become bolder and bolder recently. This city,” he gestures towards the wide panorama window that appears at the back of the room, “is a den of sin, I’m afraid. Now, I’m not implying that those of you stationed here don’t do a well enough job,” he takes a moment of break to make sure everyone understands he’s implying _just that,_ “but a _tragic_ encounter yesterday proved we need to step up our game. Michael, if you will.”

The other Archangel takes the front of the room, while Gabriel takes a half step back and waves at the projector behind him. A picture of an angel appears on the screen. Aziraphale knows him, though he can’t say they are on friendly terms. He has a very… flashy corporation, golden locks, a face of classic beauty, more muscles that are strictly necessary and an aggressive, arrogant personality to match the looks. A click from Gabriel and the text “Kemuel: discorporated” appears in shiny letters. A murmur rises from the group. Aziraphale feels an unpleasant shiver run down his spine. Discorporations happen of course - especially amongst angels who weren’t stationed on the Earth before and the fast-paced, sometimes aggressive lifestyle of humans take them by surprise. Aziraphale knows of two just from London, who got discorporated when they stepped under the bus. 

Given Gabriel’s grave tone and talk about demons, Kemuel’s body surely met a more worrying fate. 

“We are sad to say that Kemuel had a run in with an agent from Hell yesterday and it didn’t end well.” Michael starts, thus confirming Aziraphale’s suspicions. “The Hellspawn tried to escape from him but was finally comforted at a currently undisclosed location.” A click from Gabriel and the screen is showing an underground carpark somewhere. Aziraphale wonders if the undisclosed location means Kemuel has no idea where he was. Some of the angels never bothered to pay attention to surroundings. Those who think humans are below them, and Kemuel is definitely one of them. “Kemuel deployed the standard approved attack method and tried to smite him, however the demon used despicable means to achieve victory.” Michael takes a moment of pause before adding on a lower tone. “He shot him with a human gun.”

The angels are murmuring amongst themselves again. Aziraphale stares at his own reflection in the glossy tabletop and fights the very inappropriate urge to laugh. To imagine the proud Kemuel being forced out of his earthly corporation because he failed to dodge a bullet…

“Silence, silence,” Gabriel claps his hands, taking the word back from Michael. “This is a serious matter. Your college is currently recovering Upstairs before he will be fit to give a full report. Be this a good lesson for you all that demons can sink to the most deceitful means when trying to victor over us. Also, take a look at the first draft of the picture of how this foul attacker looks like. You are all meant to keep an open eye in case you can spot him. Any questions?”

A caricature of a demon appears on the screen. He? She? It? is portrayed with orange-red hair, not unlike old-fashioned clowns wear. The skin is greenish and covered in festers. The eyes are huge and black, like bottomless holes. 

“Uhm…” knowing he’ll regret it, Aziraphale raises his hand. “Surely we are not looking for someone manifesting like _that._ I mean…” he falters under Gabriel’s purple gaze, “demons are gimmicky enough to disguise their, erm, foul nature.” Few of the braver angels nod their agreement, while others find the pristine white walls very interesting suddenly. 

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says wryly. “Such a valuable input from our longest standing field agent. _Obviously,_ this is not the most refined, but as I said, Kemuel is still recovering. But I trust you all can recognise a demon when you come across one.”

Aziraphale lowers his hand and doesn’t say anything else. It used to be easier to spot a demon when both sides paid less attention to disguise. It wasn’t as if they were running around flapping dark bat-wings and sporting horns, just as angels hid their halo and tuned down their divine presence. 

He tries to slink away unnoticed when the debriefing is over, but Gabriel catches him. He is slapped over the back in a generally jovial but way too forceful manner and dragged into his boss’ private office “to put his expertise of humans to use”. Meaning, he has to answer increasingly silly questions ranging from current political climate, through upcoming and declining religious beliefs to whether the underground network of London is directly connected to Hell. (Aziraphale tries to be involved in human politics as little as possible, thinks religions more amusing than anything, and gives his assurance that he regularly rides the Tube and other than the truly annoying crowds, never felt it being evil.) Gabriel, as usual, is not paying much attention. He asks if the Spanish inquisition is still in power, proving what Aziraphale suspected all along, that he hasn’t been reading his reports for centuries, if ever.

“No,” Aziraphale says with forced calm and an even more forced smile. “They haven’t been around lately.”

“What a pity,” Gabriel says. “Or is that good news?”

“Good news,” Aziraphale reassures.

“Oh, then as you would say, jolly good, isn’t it? Maybe you should be clearer in your reports. I’ll lend you the latest study I wrote on report writing.”

The whole day goes much like this. By the time Aziraphale escapes, it’s late afternoon and he wants nothing more than to retreat with several cups of hot cocoa (maybe spiked with a bit of rum) and a book. It’s only when he reaches his shop that he realizes he expects Crowley in half an hour. 

He doesn’t have the man’s phone number and it would be rude to cancel plans so late anyway, so he does his best to improve his own mood before the date. He washes his face, puts on his cologne and brushes his hair the human way, then gets rid of his headache with a miracle. Decides to stick with his favourite waistcoat and overcoat but changes his shirt to a pale blue and his bow tie to a funkier coloured one from what he wore during the day. (Although still one with a tartan pattern - he considers that stylish enough for any occasion.) 

He makes a short list for possible topics of conversation for the night. Food and wine are given as they are going to dine. Theatre, art, if Crowley is interested in that sort of thing. Aziraphale hopes he is - he learned about his opinions of Shakespeare, which is encouraging even if said opinions are peculiar and one sided and doesn’t quite match Aziraphale’s. Music - Haydn maybe? But no, Crowley surely likes something more modern and upbeat. Tchaikovsky then or even Orff. 

Aziraphale sighs. He feels hopelessly out of date in dating. He hasn’t been seeing anyone for well over a century, but human lives are so short, and he’s been caught up in work and things to do around the bookshop. Which _might have_ mean dodging Gabriel and reading any book he can get his hands on most of the time, but still. 

Wannabe customers attempting to buy his books are an exception, but Aziraphale likes to chat with people. He might not have a social circle, a _club_ at the moment, but he hasn’t lost his touch at… casual social interactions, has he? (Aziraphale has clubbing experience, even if not with the modern kind of clubs. Nevertheless, they are quite wild.) The nice lady at the bakery was telling him about some celebrity she met the other day… someone who Aziraphale doesn’t know. The book-club people when he still went there often talked about TV-shows and movies. (He quit the book-club years ago. While everybody is entitled to have their own viewpoints, there are just things someone should _not_ say about Milton). The last film Aziraphale watched in a movie theatre was It's a Wonderful Life, well before Crowley was possibly born, even if he is 45 as he claims. (Surely, he’s not).

He’s pacing nervously by the time Crowley arrives. He takes a long, solidifying breath. What a silly thing, to work himself up so. He had perfectly entertaining conversations with the young man so far. His nerves are just jittery after the endless meeting he had to endure earlier. He silently blames Gabriel for always unsettling him so, then feels guilty about his uncharitable thoughts towards his superior. 

His own nerves fade seeing how anxious the other is - Aziraphale can’t help but feel charmed and unseemly proud of the effect he has on him. The man is a sight for sore eyes; all slender, lean lines, dressed very smartly, fully in black as usual with a silver tie around his neck. (It might be a slim scarf or an excessive jewellery, Aziraphale can’t really tell.) He is wearing his tinted glasses, even though it’s dark and cloudy. Aziraphale has never seen him without them and although he thinks it’s a pity to hide his eyes so, he saw too many strange human fashion trends rise and fall to think twice about it. 

“Where are we heading then, dear boy?” he asks as Crowley leads him to an expensive-looking motorcar. 

“What d’you say about the Ritz?”

“How delightful,” Aziraphale exclaims, truly charmed. He’s been fond of the place since the 40s. (The special establishment they used to have in the basement is just as much part of his preference for the place as the truly excellent food and service.) “Thank you,” he adds when Crowley opens the door for him like a true gentleman. “It’s a beautiful automobile. I don’t think I’ve seen something like this since… ah, quite a while. Retro, I think is the word for it?”

Crowley slips into the driver’s seat and just looks at him wordlessly for a long moment, one expressive eyebrow raised high above the rim of his glass.

“She’s a vintage Bentley,” Aziraphale has the feeling the man is having a laugh at his expanse, but there’s no malice behind it, so he can’t make himself be bothered by it. “Not many like her on the roads for sure.”

“That’s terrific, my dear,” Aziraphale says with the clueless joviality of someone who never bothered to learn the first thing about cars. He rather expected them to be out of fashion by now and finds it rather unfortunate that he was wrong on that account. They are quite horrible, loud, and dirty machines, and they are so bad for the environment. He can’t make himself care for them despite how they are an improvement from horse riding. (As preferred methods of transportation go, he thinks humans reached the best with trains. He likes trains, especially the ones with first class booths, where he can read, drink and snack at his leisure.) But Crowley is obviously proud of his “Bentley” and Aziraphale has to admit it’s rather more aesthetically pleasing than most vehicles on the roads nowadays. 

That’s the last charitable thought he has on the car. Crowley smirks and takes the early evening London traffic on like a maniac. In the first few minutes Aziraphale forgets to breathe altogether, just to let air flood his lungs and leave them again in an undignified squeak. 

“All right there, mate?” Crowley turns his head to grin at him.

“Watch the… watch the road,” he pushes his hand against the roof, looking for some kind of stability through the mad race they are apparently in, “you’ll get us… look out for the pedestrians!”

The only good thing he can say about the trip is that it’s short. Crowley parks his infernal machine somewhere Aziraphale is quite sure he’s not allowed, but that’s the least of his worries at the moment. He gets out on shaky legs and takes a few solidifying breaths. 

“Aww,” Crowley teases, swaggering up to him. “You don’t like my driving?”

“I’ll never, ever,” Aziraphale promises, “get in a car with you again. Ever. You devil.”

There’s an amused twitch to Crowley’s lips and he looks so roguishly handsome that Aziraphale quite forgets to be cross with him. 

“Am I the devil now?” he murmurs, standing just a bit too close. He smells really pleasant, cedar, ginger and something else Aziraphale can’t quite place. He tries a sniff that isn’t too obvious. He does smell a bit like smoke - maybe he’s a smoker, but it might be his cologne. It evokes a pang of longing in him for tobacco, although he hasn’t thought about his pipes in decades. (He was quite taken with Sherlock Holmes back when the books were first published and brought a couple of pipes along with a nice tartan deerstalker cap and cape in honour of the character. They suited him quite nicely he has always thought. He got into smoking the pipes for a few years, but he had to be careful around his books and forgot about them after a while.)

“Based on your driving, my dear - you definitely are,” he smiles at him, fright forgiven and is rewarded by the softening of that impish expression.

“That case, you must be an angel.”

“Oh. Oh, I… thank you,” Aziraphale says awkwardly. He knows Crowley is teasing, but he just doesn’t know how to respond to that, everything considered. Luckily the man is not looking for an answer. He pivots on his heels and struts away. He’s wearing one of those _really_ tight trousers that he usually does. His long legs and sharp hips seem to live a life of their own, being all over the place and still managing to look quite attractive. It does help that the jacket he’s wearing is rather short and doesn’t cover that pert bottom at all…

“Are you coming, _angel?”_ he looks back over his shoulders, notices Aziraphale ogling him and looks smug at it. 

“You shouldn’t be calling me that,” he chides. It’s just an endearment, he knows, but it sits oddly with him. He catches up with Crowley.

“Why not? Can’t go and keep calling you _Fell.”_

“I call you by your last name too,” he points out. “Would you prefer Anthony?”

“Ngk. Nah. I mean, Crowley’s fine. S’just ‘Fell’ really doesn’t suit you much.”

“It doesn’t?” he frets a bit - he rather thought A.Z. Fell was a clever human alias, but of course it’s a joke nobody else but him is privy to. “You can always just call me Arthur.”

Crowley stops in his tracks and stares at him through his dark glasses.

“I’m not going to call you bloody _Arthur,”_ he denies with unnecessary vehemence in Aziraphale’s opinion. 

“Why not?” he questions indignantly. “Nothing is wrong with Arthur.”

“Everything is wrong with Arthur!” Crowley waves his arms around, maybe trying to emphasize how the whole world is against the name, or just not having them quite under control in times of emotionally charged moments. Aziraphale bristles, ready to defend his not-name. 

“How can you even say that? What about all the famous Arthurs in history? King Arthur, of course. Arthur Conan Doyle. Arthur Miller…”

“All right, all right,” Crowley holds his hands up in surrender. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. You just… don’t strike me as an _Arthur,_ s’all.” 

“Oh. Oh, well,” Aziraphale twists the ring on his pinkie finger around nervously. He doesn’t _feel_ like an Arthur, after all. He should have been smarter in telling a name to Crowley, but he was caught unprepared at the time. He glances up at the man, who is smiling at him with a very fond expression. He can’t help but smile back.

“Shall we go in,” Crowley jerks his head towards the Ritz, “ _angel?”_

“Oh, honestly, you rascal,” Aziraphale laughs softly and offers his arm. “Let’s go.” 

Crowley flushes slightly as he takes his arm and lets Aziraphale steer them inside. He feels pleased with himself - it’s nice to have a handsome man walk by his side who so obviously fancies him. He’s feeling all warm and jittery inside, and it doesn’t take much at all to admit, he fancies Crowley back just as much.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We could have had plot, but Crowley decided to take a shower instead.

“Ssso tell me, _angel,”_ Crowley says, not quite able to stop himself hissing his s-es after too many glasses of wine. The newfound pet-name rolls easily off his tongue. Fell is, of course, nothing like an angel - or rather, he’s like an angel is _supposed to be._ If angels were to be sharp-witted bastards with very choice but somewhat odd vocabulary and a surprisingly high tolerance for alcohol. If angels were to enjoy their food and wine so unabashedly, hmm-ing and sighing in a slightly pornographic way. If angels would beam the most brilliant smile at waiters and tell them “thank you, my dear, this was most scrumptious” somehow making even the most stoic of servers to smile back if nothing could please them more. If they would subtly but openly flirt with Crowley, leaving him a jumbled mess sprawled on the chair, forgetting his own come-hither lines. “Tell me,” he repeats, trying to pick up his thread of thought, “why a book-ssshop?” Other than the hiss of s, he manages to pop the p at the end oddly too. _Get yourself together,_ he scolds himself. 

Fell, who drank just as much as Crowley did, waves his hand. His grey-blue eyes are not exactly focused, and his usually pale face is flushed, but he looks only tipsy, rather than drunk. Quite impressive, as they had shared three bottles of heavy red wine by now.

“Obviously, Crowley,” he says, articulating the words carefully, “I love books. So, a bookshop is… is logical.”

“S’not!” Crowley denies, waving his dessert spoon around. He ordered chocolate souffle, which he then offered to Fell, claiming he’s too full after all, and won some bonus points hopefully. “Bookshop is logical if you love _selling_ books. But you just hoard them, don’t you?”

“That’s not… well, I don’t _hoard_ them. Just some of them were so hard to get, and some people are just not very trustworthy to keep good care of them and… but saying I’m hoarding them is too extreme, really.”

“Nah, I don’t think it is. I’ve seen you with those poor souls who were unfortunate enough to wander into your shop. You were positively un-angelic. A dragon guarding his treasure.” His mobile buzzes in the pocket of his jacket. He ignores it.

“Now, that’s going too far…” Fell says with tipsy indignation. When Crowley laughs, he huffs, half annoyed, half amused. “All right, you fiend, maybe I don’t like to part from my books.”

“They are all safe from me, I promise,” Crowley winks, an effect lost on Fell as he’s wearing his glasses. Maybe he should consider coloured contacts or come up with some disorder that would make a human’s eyes look like his. The days when people wanted to burn him at the stake upon seeing his snake-eyes have passed, but they still arise questions. 

“I know you said you don’t like reading, but my dear, I wouldn’t mind lending some books to you. Surely you just didn’t try with the right ones.”

“M’old enough to know what I like, angel. S’not books… but maybe booksellers who refuse to sell their goods.”

“Oh, you flirt,” Fell smiles at him, giving that coy look through his lashes that ignites a flaming _thing_ in Crowley like anything. 

Crowley’s phone buzzes again, longer and with a definitely malicious intent this time. He wonders if telemarketers managed to get hold of his mobile number in the end, to start to call him here instead of the landline he keeps active just for this purpose. 

“Just telling the truth,” he smirks, but his mind is now on his phone, still vibrating. He has the bad feeling it’s not the telemarketers, after all. “S’cuse me for the moment here, need to pop out to the loo. All this wine…”

“But of course, dear.”

The lavatory is empty when he enters, as he makes sure it is. Nobody in the Ritz is to have a full bladder anytime soon. He takes his phone out, unlocks it with a flourish rather than an actual code. There’s no number to call back, of course. He sighs, pushes his shades on his forehead and rubs his face. Why him and why tonight? He looks up at the mirror and almost jumps out of his skin. A man, or rather, a figure resembling a man stares back at him with dark, pupil-less, _soulless_ eyes. 

“Shit,” Crowley spins around. “Hastur! What the Hell are you doing here?” 

“Crawly,” Hastur drawls. (It’s Crowley, Crowley mutters.) He’s wearing a baggy, unkept-looking overcoat, but at least there’s no toad sitting on his head and he made an effort to disguise his boils. Not that it makes Crowley happier to see him. At least, Ligur is nowhere to be seen this time. “You didn’t answer my call, _Crawly.”_ Crowley doesn’t even bother with trying to correct him this time.

“I couldn’t! I’m on a…” date, he can’t say, “on a job here.”

“Here?” Hastur looks around doubtfully.

“Obviousssly not in the _loo,”_ Crowley hisses. “I don’t do _those_ kinds of jobs. It’s the bloody Ritz, Hastur. The guy I’m tempting is left out there, hanging. If you can get on with what you want…?”

“In that case. A few things,” a battered looking clipboard appears in his hands, and Crowley represses a groan. “First of all, Management congratulates you on eliminating the Angel Kemuel. This puts you in the top three of most successful field agents of the last five-hundred years,” he drones, making sure Crowley doesn’t think for a moment that he’s impressed by his performance. “Second, Lord Beelzebub still expects a full recounting in person about the run-in with the Opposition, details to include,” he glances down at his list, “mortal weapon used, analysis on its effectiveness for possible wider-spread use amongst agents. Details on how you noticed and followed up the Angel, or, alternatively, a thorough explanation how your disguise failed. We expect the standard forms to be filled out of course, namely, A36, H42, H43 and H44, and, ah,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “B129.”

“Wait, wait, the B129 _?”_ that will take Crowley’s weekend, even with his usual creativeness and flexibility when it comes to bending the actual events.

“As I said,” Hastur repeats and he doesn’t even try to hide the sadistic pleasure this gives him, “forms A36, H42, H43, H44 _and_ the B129. In addition, prepare a presentation for Management. We prefer PowerPoint, as usual, between 12 and 14 slides, header and closing slide not included. We expect these by Friday, the 13th.” 

(Crowley has claimed a hand in the popularity of PowerPoint but in truth Microsoft managed that pretty much on their own. Small and big corporations - Hell was certainly the second - embarked on the product and demanded their employees to use it on all occasions. Crowley doesn’t know this, but it’s also the standard method for presentation in Heaven. Some fresher-minded angels are advocating Prezi, but it’s unlikely to get the Archangels’ approval.)

“Whoa, wait,” Crowley holds up his hands “that’s this week.”

“These are all standard procedures. And such an _excellent_ field agent like you, Crawly, surely started on his paperwork straight away.”

There’s nothing to do but to stumble back to their table, where Fell is waiting for him. He takes a long look at Crowley, then his smile slips and is replaced by concern.

“Are you alright there, my dear?”

“Yeah…Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry angel, I just received a call, there’s this urgent job I have to start on tonight. It’s, erm, freelancing stuff.”

“Oh, dear, are you sure you’re in the right state for that?” he frets, reminding Crowley he’s supposed to be more than tipsy. He didn’t think twice about sobering up before he came back from the loo.

“I am, don’t worry about that. Just hey, I didn’t plan the night to end like this.”

“Nonsense, dear boy, we can make up for it later. If you want…?”

“Would love to,” Crowley smiles, softer than he intends. “How’bout this weekend? Saturday…?”

“Saturday will be perfect.”

“Here, let me have your number, I’ll give you a call to make plans,” Crowley takes out his sleek, expensive mobile and is quite amused when Fell tells him the shop’s landline. “You don’t trust me with your mobile number?”

“I don’t have one,” Fell answers with a self-satisfied smile and wiggle. (How a wiggle can be self-satisfied, Crowley is not sure, but Fell manages it nevertheless.) “I find them rather dreadful devices. Look what good yours have done you.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Crowley smirks, thinking it’s still better than some of the methods Hell uses sometimes to contact him. He gets the bill - Fell seems quite content to let him pay, which he considers a good sign as far as abruptly interrupted dates go. He offers to get him a taxi (Nonsense, my dear, I will just walk. I much prefer it after the fright you gave me on the ride here.) and promises not to drive himself, as he drank too much.

He pretends to wait for a taxi until Fell’s back disappears behind the corner, then gets in the Bentley to drive home, where the most sophisticated form of Hell’s diabolic inventions awaits him; bureaucracy. Why he’s being punished when he defeated an angel in a duel, he has no idea, but Hell doesn’t need a reason to mistreat him. 

He spends two horrible days preparing his forms and his presentation and has a wide time in Hell, spinning a tale about him defeating the angel that has very little to do with how the actual events went. Luckily, his usual tactic of saying a lot and fast, while flashing his most shit-eating grin at Beelzebub and Dagon works this time as well. (Crowley may not be able to claim inventing bullshitting, but he surely is a master of it.) 

Back in Mayfair, he collapses on his couch and sleeps eighteen hours straight until the thought that he promised to call Fell awakens him at 6 p.m. He pats his body for his mobile, only to realize it’s in his jacket which is nowhere to be seen. Even more disturbing, he has one of his boots still on. He cleans the couch with a quick miracle, but it doesn’t quite sit right with him, he’ll need to clean it properly with chemicals too. 

Getting back from a performance review with Hell is like having a horrible hangover, only there is no pleasant, drunken phase before the suffering. (Crowley knows about hangovers. Under six millennia he managed to get wasted and missing sobering up before he fell asleep a few times. On all occasions, the mornings after were far from amusing.)

He stands up with a groan and goes on a hunt on his wobbly legs. He finds his boot and jacket on the floor just inside his entrance door. He fishes his phone out and calls Fell. It rings out long, with no answer. He frowns at his phone and tries again and again. He gives up, frustrated with the world in general, but mostly with ancient landlines where he can’t even leave a message, booksellers not answering his calls, performance reviews that leave him drained and ruined plans for Saturday evenings. 

He wonders if it would be too much to drive by and check if he’s there. Going by the comments he made, Fell must be living nearby or even above the shop. He doesn’t want to appear a stalker, but damn, he was looking forward to that sunny smile lighting up his dark mood and heart. Maybe he can just… casually walk by and see if he can glimpse the man, apologise for not calling earlier the day and ask him out for a drink or two. Soho is not a long walk, really, so it wouldn't be all that odd to ask if he wanted to come up to Crowley’s place for a nightcap, afterwards. Fell would hesitate, twisting his fingers together nervously in the way that always makes Crowley want to clasp his hand and hold on tightly. So, yeah, he’ll do just that, take those soft, warm hands in his cold-blooded ones, and look into those maybe-bule-maybe-grey eyes with the mimic lines in their corner. 

Fell will say something like, _if you are sure, dear boy,_ and Crowley will reply with something witty, charming and flirtatious. His mind comes up blank on what that will be, but he’ll figure something out on the spot. Anyway, he’ll have Fell in his apartment, (he looks around to confirm that it’s as pristine as it should be) and pour him an inch of single malt, or a glass of wine if that’s what he prefers. Crowley’s mind here skips a step or two, right onto the part where he’s snogging Fell on his couch, the blond man making all those appreciating little noises what he usually makes when enjoying fine food. 

He’ll be warm and sweet, Crowley is sure of it. He met people like him before, although it was far and few in between. People, who could somehow fill the aching gap in Crowley’s chest where his soul used to be before he fell. (Some days he suspects his soul is still there, blackened as it is. Other days he swears he never had one to begin with.) Fell is like that, but there’s even more to him, something Crowley can’t quite put his fingers on. There’s an elevated feeling in the demon when he’s around. He’d say he brings Heaven a bit closer to him, if that notion wasn’t completely ridiculous. 

Crowley doesn’t call his confusing feelings a crush, as he’s a dangerous, mean, evil spawn of Hell, and creatures like him don’t do crushes. (He can’t forget that.) It’s a… a fascination and a heady portion of lust. He’s good at that. Well, he’s good at being fascinated, but he does all right with lust too. 

He’s working himself into a state of it, now. Thinking about kissing Fell, pushing him back on his couch that’s very stylish by design and comfortable because it doesn’t dare not to be, straddling his thighs to get closer, closer. Getting him out of those frumpy clothes, all those layers he always wears. He seems to have various bowties, all in hideous tartan design. Crowley can’t wait to untie it, get the buttons on his shirt undone to kiss and bite and suck the skin that must be so soft underneath. Will he want it slow and sweet? He seems like the type, on first glance, but Crowley has already established there’s more to the man than meets the eye. Crowley doesn’t mind, either way - slow and sweet or fast and dirty. Laying butterfly kisses down his body or dropping to his knees, here in front of the couch, pulling his cock out, not even bothering to get him undressed before sucking him off. Crowley wants it both ways. 

How experienced Fell is, he wonders. He’s something like middle-aged as far as human lives go. Forty-five - is he younger than he claimed? Is he older and thought Crowley, the human he thinks Crowley is, would mind? Does he think Crowley is much younger and is afraid it would bother him? Aren’t humans into that sort of thing, an older man with a younger boy? (Maybe that has gone out of fashion by now. It certainly was a popular set-up for the Greeks back the time.) 

Crowley has spent enough time amongst humans to know he doesn’t appear as a boy. Sometimes he makes himself look younger, if a job requires it, typically, but he prefers his body to show it has been lived in for a while. 

Anyhow, if Fell thinks he's the more experienced, Crowley wouldn’t mind him taking the lead, showing Crowley what he liked. Fell is gentle enough, but Crowley has seen passion there. He’s also a man who quite likes his little pleasures. He probably will be confident in bed, giving and taking for their mutual pleasure. 

He pushes the heel of his hand against the growing bulge in his trousers. Yeah, he doesn’t think he’d mind the man taking the lead at all. 

Funny, how he feels sweaty when aroused, even though he most definitely does _not_ sweat. Decision made on a whim (and fuelled by the urge to be rid of his quite tight clothing) he decides to take a shower the human way before seeking Fell out. 

He snaps his fingers and his clothes disappear. (He can’t possibly get out of his skinny jeans while sporting a hard-on without the use of a miracle.) His shower is luxurious, although it’s rarely used. It’s not as if he has to rely on it to keep him clean, so he just uses it for recreational purposes. 

He does own a shampoo and shower gel, the same brand as his aftershave as he quite enjoys the scent. (Also, bubbles and foams secretly entertained him ever since humanity came up with them.) He lathers his body in lazy circles, ignoring his cock for the time being in favour of the simpler pleasure of getting the foam all over his body.

Crowley is proud of his corporation. It took trial and error and quite a bit of time to get it right. His body was roughly like a human’s to begin with, of course - the same prototype was used for humans as had been for the material manifestation of angels. (Created in her own image). It did lack certain things he added to it later, bits and pieces that made it look just like a mortal’s. (Except the eyes, the tongue and the bendiness of his spine. Some features are stickier than others, the ones that happened to him after his Fall. Being a snake is difficult to be rid of.) 

It took time for him to figure out what human parts were missing as they didn’t make much sense, did they? Bellybutton and nipples for example. Or body hair. (Fashion for that tends to change with the era. Crowley always followed trends, so he went hairless when the Egyptians shaved theirs, and let it grow after the fall of Roman empire. His personal preference is to have _some_ but nothing excessive, which worked all right in the last few decades.) 

Then there was all that embarrassing experimenting with genitalia. It took ages to figure out what wouldn’t look too much/too little/too unexpected on his body. There were a good handful of awkward situations ranging from where he was being laughed at to where humans run away screaming upon seeing him nude. That was when he learned snake reproductive organs were considerably different than human’s.

That was, thanks Someone, in the past. Since he got it right, he’s been mostly sticking to the same cock - he grew quite fond of it, really. Not only it made his pants sit just perfect, it helped him understand what human’s fascination with sex was about too. Even if at times it seems to have the mind of its own.

Crowley smirks down at it now. His cock is still hard and demanding attention, curving up towards his belly, tipping sideways to the left. (He’s never figured out why it does that but he enjoys the asymmetry of it.) He wraps long, slippery-with-foam fingers around it, stroking from root to tip, letting his mind wander back to Fell again. Where was he? He was imagining getting down on his knees on the floor before his sofa and sucking the man off. His cock twitches in his grip, more than interested in this fantasy. 

Crowley knows he’s good in giving head. (Being a snake and not quite understanding what a gag-reflex is helps. As well as having a slightly too-long, too-flexible tongue.) He images starting it slowly, holding Fell’s erection steady as he takes just the tip into his mouth, tongue pushing against the slit at the top, fingers slowly, but firmly caressing the length of it. He’d like to do this for Fell, he decides. See him fall apart, just a bit, prim and proper posture forgotten as he bends backwards on Crowley’s couch, legs open wide, fingers in the demon’s hair. Crowley pictures taking him in deep, down his throat, letting him grab the back of his head with those soft, warm fingers and guide him. Fell moans in his mind, calling him dear and darling and dear boy (which is ridiculous, but Crowley can’t help but love that). Crowley might just pop his own fly open, to rub his cock the best he can while pleasuring his lover, no finesse, just following a primal urge, chasing his own release. Fell arches off the seat when he comes, hot sprouts on Crowley’s tongue. Crowley groans at the thought, bracing his free hand now against the wall of the shower, the other jerking his prick quite frantically as he finds his release to the image of Fell coming in his mouth. 

He stands in the shower for another minute or two, letting the hot water wash him and the tiles clean of sticky fluids, enjoying the way his heart still races in his chest and how his breath is coming in pants. (He could function without a beating heart and working lungs, but he prefers it the human way.)

Well, this was certainly a thing. It’s all for the better he took the edge of, seeing he lasted like two whole minutes. 

He thinks towels are a very inadequate way to get dry, so he’s simply no longer wet when he steps out from the shower. He wipes the mist off the mirror to make sure there’s just the slightest hint of stubble on his cheeks, to go with his bad-boy look. He likes how they look next to each other with Fell, the man soft and smooth and well, _cherubic_ with his fluff of light hair and pale clothes and him, thin, tall, dark and mysterious, complementing each other's looks. (He saw people throwing them curious glances on their dinner in the Ritz, which he interpreted as appreciating. It never crosses his mind that people might find them an odd pair.) 

He miracles himself the darkest, tightest pair of jeans, a shirt with a low enough v-cut to show his collarbones and a hint of chest hair, gets in his favourite pair of snakeskin boots. (It’s faux, he can’t possibly wear the skin of other snakes. But he likes the look, and the days when he just wore his own scales on his feet have gone by. He especially can’t do that on a date.)

He dons his designer leather jacket, his super-expensive watch that he considers very nifty, spends about ten minutes doing and redoing his hair and he’s ready to go. It’s a bit late, but it’s a Saturday evening, it should be all right. He just has to find Fell, but he doesn’t worry too much about that. Something draws him to the man. 

On his long legs, Soho is but a ten minutes’ walk. On the way, he looks up medical eye conditions on his phone, settling on Pseudopolycoria, hoping it’s rare enough for Fell to have never heard of it and scientific sounding enough that no further questions will be asked. He can say he’s very sensitive about his eyes, that’s why he covers them all the time. Fell surely won’t be so tactless to press the matter.

The windows of the shop are dark, but that’s not a surprise. It’s past eight and Fell barely opens it during the day. Crowley knocks, then knocks again and again until he hears an irritated voice answering from inside.

“I’m afraid we are most definitely closed!”

“Oh no, how will I survive Saturday night without a dusty old book?”

“Crowley? Is that you out there?”

He hears footsteps approaching from inside, so he quickly rearranges himself against the doorframe into what he hopes to be an artistic sprawl and puts on a smirk. Fell opens the door just slightly to peer outside, as if to check it is really Crowley and not some insistent customer, then opens it wide once he is reassured all his books are safe for this weekend. 

“Hello, angel,” he greets softly.

“Crowley,” he watches Fell take his form in, his eyes lingering longer than strictly polite over certain parts. Crowley’s grin widens - he likes when his outfit is a success. He puts quite the effort into it, after all. “I thought you will call first.”

“I did call,” Crowley protests, “You didn’t answer.”

“Oh, is that so? I must have been caught up in my book.”

“Does this mean you’re dumping me for Austen?”

“Brontë, but she can wait. I have to confess I already know the terrible secret Jane will learn.”

“I know that one. Plenty of movie adaptations,” Crowley teases, knowing it will provoke a reaction. (Although he really has a soft spot for Timothy Dalton’s Rochester.)

“Maybe I should go back to my book,” Fell counters. Crowley can’t help but laugh.

“Please don’t. I’ll behave, I promise no talk about movie adaptations of classic books for at least the next two hours.”

“Very well, my dear,” Fell opens the door wide, “Do come in, I’ll just get ready.”

“You’re missing your bow tie, don’t you?” Crowley murmurs as he enters. Fell is in what seems to be his preferred ensemble, with his old-fashioned waistcoat, camel trousers (also old fashioned), but his white shirt has the top two buttons undone. Crowley’s eyes are drawn to that soft triangle of skin as if it’s something indecent, like an ankle flashing from beneath a Victorian dress. Impossible not to look. 

“I’ll just remedy that,” Fell looks so happy he noticed that Crowley doesn’t have the heart to tell him not to bother. He leaves Crowley standing alone in the shop as he goes to what looks like to be a backroom.

“You don’t live here, do you?” 

“Oh no, no, I do have a flat above. Although I spend most of my time down here. I quite like the shop.”

Crowley likes it as well, even if it’s dusty and cramped, the opposite of how he likes his own space to be. It’s like its owner, anachronistic, friendly if you are welcomed, but disagreeable if not, full of knowledge that most people won’t care about. Home of secrets a demon would just love to learn.

“Only has the space for sleeping then?”

“Hmm? Something like that. Not that I do that much, sleeping,” Fell comes back, look complete with his impossible tartan bow tie, a knee-length beige overcoat that looks surprisingly fetching on him and a knitted scarf, also in tartan, which is so ugly Crowley can’t even find the words to tease him about it. 

“You don’t?” Crowley honestly can’t imagine how someone doesn't like sleeping. It’s one of his favourite hobbies.

“Seems a bit like a waste of time,” Fell confesses. “I took you for the type who’s up and about odd hours as well.”

“Ngk, yeah,” Crowley is not. “Big party-goer, that’s me.”

Fell smiles in a way that gives Crowley the impression his lie is being seen through, but he doesn’t comment. Once he closes the shop up, he offers his arm. Crowley is more than pleased to take it.

They end up visiting a good handful of the numerous galleries of Soho, sipping champagne, and finding art increasingly entertaining with the amount of bubbly they consume. For nobody’s surprise, Fell knows a lot about classic art, but Crowley does as well. They have fun, looking at the modern pieces, some of them quite good, some of them not so much. After a while, all the art blends into one big jumble of colours and images in Crowley’s mind. However there are parts of the night that he’ll be able to recall crystal clear; how Fell touched his arm when he wanted to show him something, his hand on the small of Crowley’s back, when he steered him towards a particularly scandalous photograph. How he just smiled and took the flutes of champagne when they were offered for ‘him and his partner’. 

The galleries do close in the end, and they walk back towards the bookshop. Crowley can’t help but shiver - it’s early spring and the nights in London are cold and damp. Fell takes his hideous scarf off and wraps it around his neck.

“There you go, dear boy. You must be cold in that tiny jacket.”

“M’not cold,” Crowley denies, but wraps the tartan monstrosity more closely around himself. It’s softer than it looks, and it smells nice, like the cologne the man uses, something with rosemary and citruses, but there’s something else as well, a scent he can’t quite place. It sits there on the verge of Crowley’s memory, waiting for that Aha! moment when he’ll finally be able to place it and remember why it feels familiar. He lets it go for the time being, and just classifies it as the man’s own scent. 

Their hands brush, and Crowley reaches out and twines their fingers together. It’s so disgustingly _nice to_ walk back from a date hand in hand. Crowley makes a feeble attempt to care how he shouldn't be like this, but he’s having a too good time. There’s a wild moment in front of the shop when he thinks Fell will invite him in, but in the end he seems to change his mind.

“Tomorrow should be sunny,” he says instead, “Not sure what you planned for your Sunday, my dear, but we could go for a walk in St James, if you are free.”

“That’s fine, angel. Don’t have that much planned. St James it is.” Fell is still holding his hand, and they are standing really close. Crowley is likely to agree to anything right now.

“Oh, great, I’m chuffed. In that case, see you tomorrow, 11-ish?”

“I’ll come and pick you up at 11, angel.”

Fell smiles at him, lifts himself slightly on his tiptoes and lays a feather light kiss on his lips. Before Crowley could return it, deepen it, ask to be invited in after all, ask Fell to come up to his as he originally planned, Fell is already stepping back, looking pleased with himself.

“Good night, my dear. Toodle pip.”

  
Crowley stands on the pavement for long minutes, quite dazed, muttering _toodle pip, what the Hell_ to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a shift of PoV in this chapter, which disturbs my mind's preference for symmetry and pattern, but I hope you, my dear reader, will find it ok. It's for plot progression reasons.

Aziraphale is in the mood for some Beethoven on Sunday morning, so he listens to the Ninth Symphony, singing along to An die Freude. Ode to Joy - just the perfect music for his joyful mood. Even if his German is a bit out of practice, he’d never forget the words. He is incredibly proud to have a hand in inspiring them.

_Freude, schöner Götterfunken, (Joy, beautiful spark of Divinity,  
Tochter aus Elysium, Daughter of Elysiium  
Wir betreten feuertrunken, We enter, drunk with fire,  
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum! Heavenly one, thy sanctuary!) _

His voice rings out clear and harmonious as only an angel can sing, while the ancient gramophone cracks just a little bit, making the melody all the more precious. It makes it real with not being a hundred percent perfect, as it was a live performance.

(Aziraphale avoids singing in front of the public. It’s not because he shies away from being an entertainer - he’s very proud of his skills in the Gavotte and the magical tricks he learned from the amazing Mr Maskelyne. But he knows he tends to get carried away when he sings, and humans are not the best suited as an audience when a celestial being really gets into his melodies. It’s quite a turn off, having people sobbing while you sing, even if it is divine ecstasy making them weep.) 

Just as the ode finishes, a missive pops into existence right next to him, along with what, for all intents and purposes, looks like a golden handgun. 

“Oh, my goodness,” Aziraphale breaths, picking the letter up. 

_For the Principality Aziraphale,_ it reads. _Please find enclosed the firearm issued to you. Make & model: Smith & Wesson, Model Heaven Only 2000, asset number 298JHY9ZX. _

_Developed specifically for field agents on Earth. Includes 6 (six) bullets fortified with heavenly gold and blessed by the Archangel Gabriel. As advised on General Level meeting No. 397, all Holy Agents are to be armed to match the Representatives of the Opposition._

_As per the guidelines in Handbook vol. 4 page 789, approved use of weapon includes self-defence, as a tool to eliminate Hellish Agents and as an aid when weight needs to be lent in a moral argument. Utilize to best of abilities._

_By signing this proof of delivery, you acknowledge that you are responsible for learning the usage of included weapon. Heaven restricts the right to recall weapon on a 3 days’ notice. Heaven takes no responsibility for any injury caused on angelic or mortal corporations during usage._

_Warranty claims only in writing._

_15th March, 6019 After Creation._

Aziraphale heaves a heavy sigh and signs the document. The letter disappears with a quiet fanfare, leaving only a puff of smoke behind that smells faintly of myrrh. 

“This is all rather…” _ridiculous_ “excessive,” he mutters. He picks the gun gingerly up with two fingers. It is a pretty thing, if one likes gold and platinum ornaments on a firearm. Aziraphale carefully carries it to his backroom and locks it away in the drawer of his bureau. He has no plans to start carrying it around. Demons and angels with guns, running about in London - what will come next? Are they going to barricade themself up on Piccadilly and start to shoot at each other as if they were in some “western” cinema film? 

(Aziraphale has never much frequented movie theatres, in fact he hasn’t been in one for the last sixty-nine years. However, he did have a short phase in the late twenties and the thirties of the previous century when he developed quite a crush on Gary Cooper and went to see all his films, so he does know about “western.” Of course, it wasn’t how life had been in the Wild-West of America at all, but he was happy to take the movies as fiction. What mattered more was how handsome and charismatic Gary Cooper had been.)

“Books and knowledge are the weapons we need,” he mutters. He doesn’t like guns. If he has to choose a weapon, it still would be a sword, although his skills have surely got rusty over thousands of years of avoiding handling a blade. 

If there’s anything Aziraphale is the master of, it’s how not to deal with bothering thoughts. Just as he makes sure the golden gun is out of sight, out of mind, he likes to lock his concerns away and pretend they have never arisen. It’s the mental equivalent of the human habit of putting titbits of annoying but important papers in a box labelled ‘to be actioned’ just to never look at them again. So, he takes this issue about weapons and demons and shoves it into a “to be actioned later” part of his mind, along with the nagging feeling he’d need to consider it more carefully. He will deal with it later, he tells himself. For now, he has more pleasant things to think about.

Like his upcoming walk in the park with Crowley. Some clouds are gathering, but Aziraphale stares out the window thinking he would really rather prefer if it was sunny, and the clouds kindly change their tropospheric minds about gathering above inner London on this Sunday. 

Aziraphale firmly believes there’s nothing one can’t learn from books. Furthermore, he is also convinced that if he learns human customs from books, he will learn their most sophisticated forms. (He does read non-sophisticated books, but he takes them with a pinch of salt.) Given his passion for Austen and the Brontë sisters, it’s probably not a surprise he considers a stroll in the park to be an Incredibly Romantic Activity. He’s aware this might be a slightly outdated view on amorous pursuits, but the world started to move at an alarmingly fast rate after the dawn of the industrial revolution and Aziraphale feels more comfortable if he doesn’t try to catch up immediately with everything. Old fashioned doesn’t mean _wrong,_ and slow simply means relishing things. Why jump straight to the main course, when one can savour the starters, allowing them to tease the taste buds and pique hunger? What’s the point of rushing sex, when the courtship leading towards it helps to build the passion? 

Aziraphale adores romance, but it’s something he normally observes from a distance rather than actively partake in. He truly enjoys this thing with Crowley, wherever it will lead. He hopes he did the right thing, not inviting him in the previous night, but there should be plenty of other occasions. He finds the young man incredibly attractive, and it’s not just his looks, although he very much enjoys those too. Crowley is, after all, very roguishly handsome, has the most beautiful shade of hair, that thin figure he always dresses in black. Which Aziraphale doesn’t quite get, but it fits him and it’s definitely an ahh, _fashion statement_. (Aziraphale isn’t completely sure what that expression means, but he thinks it must fit the way Crowley choses very dark colours for no other apparent reason but to make him look neat as a pin.)

Aziraphale doesn’t know all that much about the man, and obviously there's very limited information he can share about himself, but he thinks they have a _connection._ A...a… spark of desire, a pull that’s irresistible. The hand of fate guiding them together. (As said before, Aziraphale is rather romantic.) 

Crowley surely has to feel something similar. What other reason he’d have, taking, who he thinks is a forty-something bookshop owner, out to the Ritz, to art galleries, to a walk in St James? Even with those dark glasses permanently on, Aziraphale can always feel the weight of Crowley's eyes, watching him. He knows the desire is mutual, but he has decided yesterday to take things slowly to enjoy this unusual connection to the fullest, the promise of more, before the more physical hanky-panky. Crowley, the dear boy, seems to be game with that. 

Naturally, he’s looking forward to the sex as well. It has really been a long while. It will be quite a treat to unwrap that slender body from those fabulously tight clothes. He does wonder about his eyes too. Maybe those glasses are part of a similar plot Aziraphale has - Crowley’s way to maintain an air of mystery before he shows the mirrors of his soul to Aziraphale. He suspects the man is just as much a romantic as he is, just maybe he would be less willing to admit to it. Yes, Crowley is the type who’d deny with all he has that he’s interested in _romance._ Yet, that twitchy, nervous energy that usually surrounds him has completely quieted down when they held hands. 

Crowley arrives at eleven sharp and tries to steer Aziraphale towards his “Bentley.” The angel eyes the sleek, black car dubiously. 

“I don’t know, Crowley. The park isn’t that long walk from here. Best if we make it on foot. It’s a lovely morning, after all.”

“You don’t trust my driving? I’m hurt, angel.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Aziraphale denies, although it is _exactly_ that. “Only it would be nice if we made the best of this rare nice weather, don’t you agree?”

“It is sunny,” Crowley agrees cheerfully, “A bit of a miracle, isn’t it?”

“Ahhh. Well. Wouldn’t say a _miracle._ Just a bit of luck,” he decides to change the subject, as he thinks Crowley might be looking at him strangely from behind his shades. “Are you going to leave your automobile there? I’m not sure you are allowed to park it on that spot,” he gestures hesitantly towards the double yellow line that most drivers seem to respect. 

“Don’t worry, I have a permit,” Crowley reassures. “Never got a fee in my life.”

“That’s nice my dear,” Aziraphale likes clever human inventions, and it seems such a nifty thing, for Crowley to have a permit that allows him to station his vehicle right in front of his shop. He doesn’t think most cars are allowed to do that, he can’t really recall anyone else parking there before. 

They walk out to the park and Crowley tells him about a show on television he’s watching. It’s hard to tell if he likes or hates it, but he certainly feels passionate about it.

“So, is this about baking cakes, but in a competitive way?” he asks, slightly confused. He never knew baking competitions to be so intensive.

“The Bake Off is not simply that!” when Crowley gets agitated, he starts to gesticulate with his whole body, twisting towards Aziraphale, long arms flailing to convey… Aziraphale is not sure what, but it’s definitely done with passion. “Wait! Do you mean to tell me you don’t watch the Bake Off?”

“Oh, I don’t have a television set.”

“You can watch Netflix on your laptop?” Crowley gets unsure by the end of that sentence, probably realizing it’s unlikely for Aziraphale to have one of those either.

“I do have a computer,” he says, because he feels it might be considered odd if he doesn’t have any of these modern devices. (Aziraphale’s computer runs on Windows 95 and the only reason it didn’t die long ago because it really doesn’t want to disappoint the angel.) “Although I only use it for my tax declaration.”

Crowley bark a surprised laugh at that, and although Aziraphale can’t say what’s so funny, it seems to be catching and he finds himself chuckling along.

“We need to make a movie night, angel,” Crowley declares. “I promise no book adaptations, but we can’t have you missing out all the fun.”

“I’m not missing out on the fun,” Aziraphale chides, “I have all my books.”

“But you can’t watch any of the shows! You can’t even… can’t even watch porn.”

Aziraphale considers this.

“As I said, I have all my books.”

Crowley grins slowly as if that piece of information is something vital. Aziraphale refuses to blush- erotic literature has been part of human civilization since writing was invented, and it’s natural for him to satisfy his curiosity. (And satisfy other things as well.)

They reach the park, and the conversation shifts to less risqué topics. As expected in such nice weather, Londoners and the wildlife alike are enjoying the rare gift of springtime sun. Aziraphale smiles at the squirrels and frowns at the geese as they navigate around people lying in the grass, sitting on benches, doing various exercises. They come to a stop at a duck pond, where he reaches into his pocket to retrieve a small bag of bread.

He offers it to Crowley (not for him to eat, but for him to feed the ducks), who doesn’t even notice it first, as he’s looking around, as if he is trying to spot someone.

“Is everything alright, dear boy?”

“Yeah… yeah it is. Just for a moment I thought… but it’s nothing. Where d’you get the bag from?”

“It’s bread, for the ducks,” Aziraphale not-quite explains. “I always have it with me when I come here.” Which is technically true, although the bag wasn’t in his pocket until a minute ago when he summoned it from his kitchen table with a minor miracle. Crowley still looks a bit concerned, but at least he doesn’t look inclined to question it further.

(Aziraphale is unaware of the controversy about feeding ducks stale bread, but there’s no need to worry. This angelic bread won’t cause harm to any waterfowl.) 

They feed the ducks together, and Crowley amuses himself with trying to chuck them on the head with the cubes of bread. The birds don’t care at all, they chow down each and every piece, quacking happily. 

“This is nice, isn’t it?” Aziraphale smiles up at the man.

“M’not sure about ducks. They kinda seem to be watching you, don’t they? They dawdle about, but you never know what they _think,_ do you?” 

“I’m fairly sure they have no sinister intention,” Aziraphale says after careful deliberation, “they just live in their duck-world and go about their duck-lives.”

“I was followed around by a clutch once. I was just minding my own business at a lake when they hatched, and they all saw me first. I don’t trust them since.”

It’s the most adorable thing Aziraphale heard in ages, but he knows Crowley enough by now not to say it aloud. He still can’t help but smile fondly at him.

“I’m sure they were a menace,” he says with as much seriousness as he can muster. “How did you escape from them?”

“That’s it - I didn’t! They were coming after me no matter what. I was stuck with them till they grew up and could hunt their own bloody tadpoles.” 

“Are you saying you were the nanny of some ducklings at one point?” Aziraphale loses the battle he fights with laughter. “Was this in your childhood?”

“I was younger,” Crowley admits petulantly. “S’not nice that you laugh.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry my dear. I’m not laughing at you! I just think this is very cute.”

“I’m not cute,” Crowley denies with a (cute) pout.

“I didn’t say you were cute,” Aziraphale points out, “Simply that I find this story charming.”

“Now I’m even more hurt, angel.”

Aziraphale takes his hand and that puts an end to the teasing for the time being. They both edge closer to each other, and Aziraphale’s arm ends up around Crowley’s thin waist, Crowley’s around his shoulders. 

By Aziraphale’s perception it wasn’t long ago when men couldn’t afford being seen like this in public, when _homosexuals_ had to make sure their affections only happened far away from prying eyes, in discreet gentlemen’s clubs for the luckier, but often in parks trusting in the dubious cover of bushes and a moonless night or in dark and dirty alleyways, without hope in anything but pure luck. 

(Angels are, of course, genderless. However, one can’t pretend to be human for 6000 years without having the appropriate genitalia, especially if an angel enjoys baths and hot spas whenever and wherever they are in fashion. For the majority of his time on earth, Aziraphale has presented as a man and he has always preferred the company of other men when it came to sex. Understandably, he’s very relieved gay right movements of the late 20th and early 21st centuries were so successful in so many parts of the world. Pretending to be human _and_ heterosexual at the same time is just a bit too much for his acting skills.) 

Crowley leans in - he’s really rather tall, isn’t he, Aziraphale muses - and kisses him softly on the mouth. It’s gentle and almost chaste, and the angel resists the urge to deepen it, to let his longing and passion show through. A public park is just not the place for it, changes of what society deems acceptable or not notwithstanding. 

“Say, angel,” Crowley’s voice is hoarse. He pulls back to put some space in between themselves. “What d’you think about me taking you out for something special instead of the usual lunch on Tuesday?”

“I think that’s an incredibly nice idea, my dear.”

“M’not nice.”

“Once again, I haven’t suggested _you_ are nice. But the idea is.”

“You’re a right bastard, you know that?” it is said with such affection that Aziraphale feels he has to take it as a compliment.

“One tries his best.”

They walk back to Aziraphale’s place and share another soft kiss or two as goodbye before Crowley gets into his beloved motorcar and drives away like a true maniac. Aziraphale sends a blessing after him to make sure both him and everyone else on the road stays safe, blissfully unaware how it almost makes Crowley crash into a tree.

***

Crowley spends his Sunday evening trying to pick a play to take Fell to. He settles on Kinky Boots, as he likes the title and hopes Fell will find it amusing. It takes an intricate chain of miracles to get the tickets on such short notice, but he does manage. He calls the man on Monday to tell him they are going to Adelphi Theatre. 

“This is A.Z. Fell and Co, Antiquarian and Unusual Books, but I’m afraid we’re just about to close.”

“That’s reasonable,” Crowley drawls, “considering it’s almost half three in the afternoon.” Honestly, the hours the man keeps is the most amusing thing. 

“Crowley,” he can hear the smile in Fell’s voice. “You know how it is. Some customers just don’t respect opening hours, although they are detailed on the sign at the entrance as well.”

“Not respecting even sensible opening hours like yours? When you have a note explaining how you absolutely don’t guarantee you open at all on any given day? The cheek of some people.”

“I know, absolutely atrocious,” Fell chuckles good naturedly at the teasing. “How are you, my dear? Is our date still on for tomorrow?”

“It’s so on, like… like something that’s very much on,” smooth, Crowley, very smooth. “We have a ticket for a show at Adelphi at seven.”

“How delightful, I adore a good play! What are we seeing?”  
  


“Let that be a surprise. Pick you up and half six?”

“I have the feeling I’ll have a job to do tomorrow afternoon. Maybe meet you at the theatre?

“You have _a feeling_ you’ll have to work?” The man is so odd, Crowley absolutely adores him. That is to say, he’d adore him, if he wasn’t a demon As he is, he doesn’t do such a thing. But he does fascinate him. 

“Oh it’s…it’s not confirmed yet. But I’m likely to be away from the shop in the afternoon.”

“That’s fine, angel. Do your mysterious job. Meet you before the show then.”

“See you there, my dear.”

Crowley’s good mood lasts all through Monday and Tuesday. He does some minor jobs himself, but he’s too cheerful to really put his mind to it. He buys a bottle of wine and some snacks at his local store, thinking he’ll really invite Fell up to his place this time. He plans to tempt the cashier into stealing from the till - her financial state has been desperate enough lately for her to seriously consider it. In the end however, he just can’t make himself to do it. She’ll receive a call tomorrow from one of the places she was applying for and lend herself a better job. If anyone questions Crowley, this is a demonic deed as it will leave the store one person short and the owner will have to increase the offered salary to find someone new. Then he’ll have to raise it for the rest of the old staff too. 

(Alright, it would take some explaining on Crowley’s part how this was something devious, but Management Downstairs rarely looks into details.)

He gets dressed in smart clothes, black denim pants, a silky, dark grey button-down shirt, an elegant, single-breasted jacket. He’s ready way too early, so decides to drive over to Fell. Maybe the man has finished whatever job he had earlier and will be interested in some drinks before the show. 

He’s out of luck - the shop is closed and there’s no answer to his insistent knocking on the door. He checks his watch - more than an hour to go till seven. He might as well walk around, grab a coffee somewhere and watch the flood of humans hurrying on their business. 

(People watching is a favoured pastime of Crowley and one of the main reasons he’s been living in London for so long. Londoners are a very colourful bunch, always in a hurry, pushing their way through millions of other people yet pretending they don’t exist at all. It’s easy to pick the right, or rather, the wrong ones out for temptations.)

There’s a commotion on Piccadilly that feels to be different from the usual masses gathering at the place. An accident, maybe? Crowley joins the crowd of gawkers in front of Boots. 

“What happened here?” he asks a young woman with hair dyed a shocking shade of red and sporting an impressive number of piercings. She casts him a suspicious look for being talked to by a stranger which evolves into a thorough once-over as she decides to answer.

“Oh, it was horrible,” she says with a coquettish smile that doesn’t match her words, “some fucking lunatic drove into the crowd, trying to run people over. We were just coming up from the tube when we saw it. He was literally hitting people, but - I don’t even know how - nobody got seriously hurt. The ambulance’s here but everyone just has some scratches.”

“Miraculousss,” Crowley hisses as an uneasy prickle runs down his spine.

“I know, right? He wasn’t missing them or any shit. Still, they are all okay,” she flutters heavily lined eyes at him. She would be an easy target for a quick temptation, but work is the least of Crowley’s concerns at the time being.

“Is the guy still here? The one who wanted to run the others over?”

“Hm? What?” a befuddled expression comes over the woman’s features, and it’s not because of Crowley’s good looks.

“I said,” Crowley repeats on a clear voice that he hopes will penetrate the fog, “if the guy with the car is still here?”

“No, he… ran away, I think. Someone was chasing him, maybe? I’m sorry, I really don’t know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Crowley smiles the best he can. (Which is not the best _ever_ , at the moment) “You were great help. Take care. Ta-ta.”

He backs away, leaving the still confused looking woman behind. If there’s an angel nearby, and it certainly seems there is, the smartest thing to do is to vanish as fast as he can. He curses his bad luck for running into the Opposition twice under such a short time. They are just _swarming_ London lately, aren’t they? Upstairs is really taking the game seriously nowadays. 

He needs to get the fuck away from here. Rush back to the Bentley, take a detour to the theatre and wait for Fell there. He wishes Adelphi were farther away. Can he consider it as a safe distance? 

Maybe he’s overreacting, he thinks as the initial panic tunes down. It’s unlikely that the angel at Piccadilly would pop into the theatre to see _Kinky Boots_ of all things, isn’t it? Was there an angel here at all? He can’t be sure, can he? Upstairs, as far as he can tell, is not very concerned with the lives of humans. Maybe suffering prepares their eternal souls for Heaven or whatever, but Crowley has never seen any angel try to make anyone’s life better, let alone save them. He wanders through narrow streets, avoiding the crowds on instinct, not quite thinking where he’s heading, lost in thought. He takes a turn towards a dingy little alleyway and stops dead in his tracks.

The angel is standing in the dead end of the alley with his back turned towards Crowley. There’s no mistaking of what he is, not with the way he’s lit up from the inside, projecting a heavenly glow. Even behind his dark glasses, Crowley’s eyes burn and water as he looks at him. Yet, he can’t tear his gaze away, that holy light is as irresistible as it is deadly for his demonic soul. 

There’s a pathetic lump of human laying at the angel’s feet. He doesn’t appear to be the target of heavenly wrath, but rather… a thorough scolding?

“...now my dear boy, this was an incredibly silly and dangerous thing to do, I hope you agree? People could have gotten seriously injured. It’s lucky I live nearby and got wind of your intentions.”

Crowley makes a choked off sound in the back of his throat. The angel turns towards him and it’s Fell, of course it’s fucking Fell, how could Crowley be such a bloody moron?

“Crowley?” the angel sounds surprised and concerned. “What are you doing here, my dear? Oh, this must look very strange to you, but let me just…”

The demon never learns what he plans to do, as the man uses the interruption to get to his feet and whip out a gun. There’s terror on his face (matching the one in Crowley’s heart) as he aims the weapon at the angel and fires.

Crowley does something inexplicably idiotic. He intervenes.

It’s just… in that moment he sees a gun pointed at Fell, not at the enemy, not at a fucking _angel_ still projecting his glory, but at the man he took out for a date in the Ritz, fed the ducks in the park and had high hopes to get sex with. He makes a wide, sweeping gesture and the bullet turns into a very confused bumblebee who has to make a last minute manoeuvre to avoid colliding into the angel. The gun itself turns into a sleek, black snake. It coils its body around the wrist of the man and sinks its fangs into his skin.

The assailant slumps to the ground, knocked out although not permanently harmed. The police will find him in an hour, sleeping unconsciously on the ground, and ship him off to prison. 

The angel and the demon stare at each other. Crowley thinks he’d need to attack or escape or _something_ , before the angel gets over his shock and makes the first move. 

“I can’t believe it,” Fell gasps and he looks very upset. At least he dims his glory, appearing, as he had before, a middle-aged human in outdated clothes that still oddly fit him. There are the handsome, kind features Crowley finds so familiar, that attractive face with eyes that speak of a gentle nature but with a sharp wit, the unruly wisp of light hair. He’s nothing like any angel Crowley has seen before, he looks like a human with his soft body, with his slightly rounded belly. Only he is not. He’s fucking far away from it. 

“Tell me about it,” Crowley mutters. He flinches when the angel walks over to him and takes a step back, but he’s not running away for some obscure reason. It’s just hard to believe Fell would harm him. Only he’s not Fell, is he? He’s the Enemy.

The angel seems to come to a decision. His confused, nervous expression suddenly closes off and becomes steely with determination. He grabs Crowley’s arm, and that soft, warm hand is like a vice around his bicep. He makes a garbled sound of protest at the rough treatment and tries to pull his arm free, but it proves to be impossible.

“Let’s get back to the bookshop,” the angel says and proceeds to drag the protesting demon through Soho.


	5. Chapter 5

An uneasy prickle runs downs on Aziraphale’s spine when he sees the nervous young man on Monday morning. The angel is waiting in the queue for his usual croissant and bagel at his favourite bakery when he crosses the street. For Aziraphale it seems as if a black cloud of malignance is hanging permanently over his head. His emotions roll off him in so strong waves, he is impossible not to feel, they separate him even in the crowds of London. He’s twitchy, confused and angry. The angel is suddenly quite certain he is very close to doing something very unforgivable. 

Bag of pastries in hand, Aziraphale follows him until he can pinpoint more precisely what he is up to. It’s not a certainty, nothing like a solid knowledge, just a notion that Aziraphale should better be at Piccadilly tomorrow afternoon. 

He arranges his plans with Crowley around it, thinking it’s nice to have something to look forward to after a bit of a stressful job.

There’s screaming and panic when the confused young man drives into the crowd, but Aziraphale is there and he is a decent enough guardian, no matter how much Gabriel always belittles his achievements. Nobody gets hurt and Aziraphale is so grateful for that, he can’t even be bothered by the questions he’ll surely receive from Upstairs on the number of miracles used on this single afternoon. He stands there amidst the frenzied chaos, visible, yet unseen by humans, taking care of everyone until the assaulter gets out of his horrible automobile and runs away. 

Aziraphale takes after him, corners him and does his best to talk sense into him. When divine revelations were still in style, it was easier to appear in front of humans and guide them away from an evil path. This human is too consumed by anger to really listen, so, despite it not being an encouraged method, Aziraphale lets his glory radiate through his corporation. Unfortunately, this only provokes mindless fear instead of a simple attention. 

Everything goes so fast after that. Suddenly and very alarmingly Crowley is there. Before Aziraphale can fully process the situation and start to be concerned about what he saw, what Aziraphale should say or do, Crowley… the demon Crowley reveals himself to be, saves him from being shot. 

It’s a bit too much for a Tuesday evening. He finds it impossible to deal with all this at the same time, the young man unconscious on the ground because a demon knocked him out, so he couldn’t discorporate Aziraphale. A demon, who he’s been seeing for weeks because he thought he was _human_. A demon gaping at him, and Aziraphale is supposed to smite him, isn’t he? He decides to focus on what feels to be the most important in that moment; getting themselves away from any Heavenly eyes that might be peering. 

He grabs Crowley’s… he grabs the demon’s arm and drags him back to the bookshop. They are there really fast - Aziraphale is preoccupied and might be putting a bit too much angelic intent behind their progress, moving them faster than the human eye can follow.

“Whoa, why’s the rush,” the demon says, but he doesn’t really protest or try to pull himself free after one feeble attempt. The door opens for them as they reach it, then closes shut once they are inside, lock and bolt clicking. 

“Sit,” Aziraphale orders, pointing at his threadbare sofa in the backroom. The demon obeys. He looks around in interest - all their previous conversations happened outside in the main room. And over lunches, in the Ritz, in art galleries and the park. Aziraphale starts to pace, shooting glances at the creature sprawled on his old couch. How could he be such an idiot? 

Crow… _the demon_ looks dazed and confused. Harmless. He looks like Crowley, only he’s not the Crowley Aziraphale thought he started to get to know. Aziraphale let a demon come to his bookshop (regularly), let him take him to lunch (again, regularly), and to various dates. Dates he considered rather romantic. He...he _flirted_ with the beast, took his hand, kissed his lips, and planned to do so much more. 

He has no idea what he’ll do now, having him in the shop again. The demon doesn’t look inclined to attack him (he’s just sitting there, with his long limbs sprawled in each and every direction, appearing as handsome as ever) and it would be unseemly of Aziraphale if he smote him out of the blue. He really has never been much for smiting. 

Demons are foul creatures, but this one saved him from discorporation. He’s also wearing these very tight pants ( _inhumanly tight,_ but Aziraphale never suspected a thing) and a very nice shirt, looking the opposite of foul. He thinks about the gun in the drawer of his bureau, about the bullets fortified with heavenly gold and Archangelic blessing. He tries to picture himself aiming it at Crowley and shooting his demonic heart through. The thought makes him feel nauseous. He stops his pacing, buries his face in his hands and groans.

“Yeah, I know,” the demon says, “this is a fucking mess.”

“That’s the understatement of the century,” Aziraphale looks up at him. “What… Why… Just what was your ultimate goal with all this?”

The demon shrugs.

“Getting laid,” he mutters.

“What?” Aziraphale can’t believe his ears.

“Thought it was obvious.” When the angel just stares at him, he shifts uncomfortably. “Well, I was thinking you wanted it too. The dates were fun and I sssuppose,” there’s that slight hiss to his speech again, reminding Aziraphale of snakes. Of course. How… how utterly idiotic of him, again. (Previously he thought it was a tipsy lisp and found it endearing). “I… well. What can I say? This is a mess.”

“Let me try to get this right,” Aziraphale pinches the bridge of his nose and heroically fights off the craving for alcohol. “You’re claiming that you deceived me because you were hoping to coax me to have sex with you? Because… that’s the absolute feat of Temptation? Getting an angel to sin with a demon?”

“What? No! I didn’t know you were an angel, obviousssly. Your cover’s good. Just wanted a bit of fun. You seemed… interesting.” He trails off, and he looks just as lost as Aziraphale feels. He looks innocent. Aziraphale can’t be gullible and believe him. “Listen, angel. I know it’s just the word of a demon, but I really meant no harm.”

“You started to call me angel,” Aziraphale accuses. “What was that if not mocking me? You surely had a good laugh on how clueless I was!”

“Wasn’t!” the demon denies vehemently, throwing his long arms up in the air and waving them aimlessly around. “I thought you would make a good one. An angel, I mean. You were _nice._ And what’s the idea of blaming me in all this,” he flares up, suddenly defensive. “It’s not as if _you_ told _me_ what you are, and yet I didn’t say anything! You’re in this as much as I am!”

Aziraphale has no response to that. Believing him is dangerous and stupid, but the demon… but Crowley has never shown any signs of wanting to harm him, and surely, he had plenty of chance if he intended to? Aziraphale is so, so bad in resisting temptation, and Crowley lures him in so much. A good angel, indeed.

“Wait here,” he commands and leaves the room. He more than half-expects the demon to have disappeared by the time he returns and can’t decide whether he’s disappointed or relieved to find him still on the couch where he’s left him, only his posture is more artfully arranged with his gangly legs crossed and arms outstretched against the back of the sofa. The pose is relaxed, but there’s a tightness of his jaw as he keeps track of Aziraphale’s movements as he comes closer to him. 

The angel sets the two glasses he brought with himself down and pours both full of heavy, deliciously red Malbec. He picks one of them up and collapses in his armchair.

“Go ahead,” he gestures at the wine. “I think we both need it.”

Even with those dark shades on, he can feel Crowley’s glance shooting nervously between him and the glass on the table before the demon picks it up gingerly. 

“‘S good wine,” he acknowledges, taking an experimental sip.

“2009 Mendel Unus,” Aziraphale sighs. It’s good to know his nice wine is not wasted on the other, even if he’s a demon. They go through the bottle in silence. The situation still feels dangerously absurd when they finish it, so what else Aziraphale is to do, but to bring out another one?

“You know,” Crowley gestures widely. He has an odd way of doing it, putting his whole body into the motion. Aziraphale finds it fascinating to watch, but it’s very difficult to say what he wants to convey with his arms flailing like that. He mostly appears to imitate a bird, something big and dark, like an agitated raven. “You know… what do you know?”  
  
  


“I definitely do _not_ know what you’re getting at, dear boy,” Aziraphale chides him, raising a disapproving finger. “I’m quite afraid you are not making any sense at all.”

Which is not too much of a surprise. They have been drinking steadily for… the Almighty knows how many hours, although Aziraphale hopes against reason She is not watching at the moment. There’s a growing pile of bottles on the table, the tell-tale of their escapade. 

Things started to look less mortifying after they finished two bottles of Malbec and a Chardonnay. They exchanged some stories; Crowley told him he’s been living in London for a while, and they shared a brief, embarrassed laugh on the impossibility how they never met before. 

“Must be because you’re bunkered up in a bookshop and I don’t read,” Crowley said, hissing his s-es and popping his p-s quite adorable after all the wine. Aziraphale told him that’s the most demonic of him, his claim that he doesn’t read, and he should have been suspicious long ago, because how can anyone with an ounce of soul not _love_ books? They ended up having a very familiar-feeling argument about movies versus books. That was the point at which Aziraphale brought out his 1984 vintage Port. (He’s been saving it for a special occasion and how would it ever get more special than this? What can beat getting sloshed in his bookshop with a demon he thought human and hoped to get intimate with?) 

Things are a bit hazy after that. 

What Aziraphale can clearly recall is that they ended up discussing ancient philosophy (and getting their schools mixed up and laughing about it). Once they finished abusing poor old Aristotle who deserved better _and_ emptied the bottle of Port, Aziraphale poured them gin, knowing it was a horrible idea and still going ahead with it. That’s how they ended up where they are now, with Crowley imitating a very disoriented raven and trying to make a point about nothing. Aziraphale chuckles drunkenly. The demon seems to take that as personal offence. 

“No, no, you know what I’m getting at!” Crowley accuses him, pointing a wobbly finger in his general direction. “You’re an angel.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighs. “I can’t deny that. Doesn’t make me a mind-reader, though.”

“‘S my point!” Crowley cries triumphantly. “M’point _is_ that you’re an angel! But you… you get drunk and eat food like it’s...like it’s… you do those _moans_ and you fori..fornic..have sex with humans!”

“That’s not a regular thing!” Aziraphale protests, blushing. He’s not sure what moaning the demon is referring to as they certainly haven’t got that far. “I haven’t since… oh, since 1918 or was it 19? And even then, it was just this tiiiny little fling...” he gets his thumb and forefinger almost together to illustrate how tiny it was. 

“You’re also a liar.”

“I am not!” Aziraphale lies. 

“Is that so,” Crowley leans forward to deliver the deadly blow, “ _Arthur?”_ he throws himself back on the couch with a victorious grin, sloshing gin on his fancy shirt. He dabs his chest down drunkenly. He doesn’t seem to recall he could miracle it dry.

“That’s not my name.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’!”

“My name is Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeats with wonder, and it’s a right miracle he manages to pronounce it in the state he’s in. “That fits you ssso much better. Arthur’s… well it’s ridiculous, I knew straight away something was off ‘bout it. Just didn’t know how much off. Well I’m… I’m Crowley, but you know that. Used to be Crawly but I changed it.”

“Crowley is good,” Aziraphale nods sagely. “It’s a good name.”

“You think?” he lights up at that. “Crawly was a bit, y’know, squirming at your feet-ish, changed it, ghhh, like two-thousand years ago? Crawly, that was a more of joke than a name, or y’know, more of a reference as I’m… wait. _Wait_. You want to see something spooky?”

“Oh, I don’t know, my dear. I don’t like being spooked a whole lot.”

“I like spooky. Big spooky fan, me. But this, this is more funny than spooky I think? Wanna see?”  
  
  


“Seeing how you so obviously want to show me… sure. Go ahead then.”

Sniggering to himself, Crowley removes his glasses. Aziraphale breath catches in his throat. 

“Look at this! Snake eyes! What’d you say, angel? Wanted to tell you it’s Pseudo… pseudo-something, I forgot. Eye disease.”

“My word…” Aziraphale breathes. 

“See? Ssspooky! That’s why I wanted to say the pseudo-thingy, y’know, so you won’t be… spooked. When I thought you were. Not an angel.”

“No, it’s not,” Aziraphale denies, unthinking. “Your eyes are beautiful, Crowley.”

They stare at each other. Aziraphale’s insides are doing something funny and possibly volatile considering the amount of alcohol he consumed. Crowley looks away first.

“You have a peculiar taste, angel.”

“I’ll have you know that my taste is impeccable.”

“He says while wearing a tartan bow tie.”

“Tartan is stylish!”

“No, it’s not!” he laughs. “S’like… when was that even in style? And it’s not a hipster thing, is it?”

“I’ve no idea what a hipster is,” Aziraphale does his best to look put out, but it’s difficult when Crowley’s mirth is so honest. He might be too drunk to really feel annoyed.

“My point…”

“Oh please, don’t start that again.”

“All I’m saying s’that you’re this strange angel and I’m a snake and we both thought the other is human, which is _spectacularly_ stupid of us.”

“In my defence, I never met a demon like you,” and he doesn’t suppose he ever will.

“One who’s a snake?”

“No. No, I mean…well, _yes,_ but what I want to say is…” at loss for words, he stands up on shaky legs to pour both their glasses full again with gin. Once that’s done, his armchair just seems too far away, so he slumps down on the couch next to Crowley without any grace. The demon makes room for him, curling up his long body into a ball, resting his face against the backseat of the couch. His usually artfully styled copper hair clings to the upholstery messily. He flashes a smile that has no business being as endearing as it is. He looks so mischievous but so innocent and surely, he can’t be. (He’s a demon! A very reasonable voice in Aziraphale's mind points out. Aziraphale just can’t bother to listen to it at the moment.)

“What d’you mean then? A sexy one like me?” he winks with those snake-eyes and Aziraphale licks his lips unconsciously. Crowley’s unblinking gaze follows the movement of his tonge. 

“Well yes, I mean no. I haven’t met a, you know, attractive looking demon before either, but you are - _nice.”_ If he was sober, which he is not, he might think that was nothing, but an act Crowley put on to bewitch a human he wanted to seduce. His inebriated mind refuses to operate under that assumption though, insisting Crowley _is_ nice.

“I’m a _demon,_ I’m not _nice,”_ Crowley hisses even though there are no s-es in that sentence. He glares at Aziraphale, who holds his hands up placatingly, but doesn’t take it back. Crowley deflates, muttering something rude-sounding under his breath, before he tracks back to what was previously said. “You think I’m attractive?” 

“I think that much should be obvious, everything considered,” Aziraphale huffs a small, self-deprecatory laugh. Unfortunately, he doesn’t find Crowley any less hot now that he knows him to be a demon. 

“I think you are a very handsome angel, too,” Crowley mock-whispers as if it’s a secret. (Which it _is,_ of course.) 

“Not the most athletic corporation,” Aziraphale points out, patting his belly lightly, thinking about all that cake and wine he should have resisted, but didn’t. “Although I quite got used to it over the years.”

“S’a nice body,” Crowley says, and he flushes in a way that may or may not be the effect of too much gin. “It looks, y’know, _real,_ unlike other angels’. It suits you,” there’s a bit of a silence, heavy with the kind of tension Aziraphale would be smart enough to break, if he were sober. Which he is still not. He just sits there, staring at Crowley, who stares back and both of them are blushing. The demon must sense the suspense, as he fidgets and offers as a way out, “But that bow tie, though, seriously. Why a bow tie? Why in tartan?” 

Aziraphale adjusts the piece of clothing in question with an exaggerated gesture.

“I happen to like both bow ties and tartan patterns. Why not combine the two?”

“Because it’s horrible,” Crowley laughs and reaches a lanky arm out. The back of his hand is smooth and cold as it brushes against Aziraphale’s jaw. He takes the end of the tie gently between slender fingers and tugs the knot free. He leaves the tie around the angel’s neck, fingers fiddling with the loose ends of the cloth. Aziraphale’s pulse is thundering in his ears. He wants Crowley to wrap the loosened tie around his hand, tug him close and…

Heaven help him, what is he thinking? He needs to sober up, right now. It is dangerous and _wrong_ of him to have a demon on his couch as it is. A very drunk, very attractive demon. A demon with high cheekbones on his handsome face, a slender, enthralling body, a demon with the most unique, alluring eyes... 

It’s impossible to tell who closes the space between them - it is simply just no longer there. Their lips brush, tentative at first, then more firmly with drunken passion. It’s messy and desperate and perfect. Crowley moans into the kiss, lurching closer with a peculiar motion that leaves his body flush against Aziraphale’s. The angel takes his face in his hands, fingers burying into short, copper hair. Crowley tugs on his shirt until it comes loose from his trousers on one side and slips his hand under. Aziraphale can’t help but jump a little - Crowley’s touch is colder than expected on his heated skin.

“Sorry,” Crowley mutters, “‘S a snake thing. Cold-blooded.”

They kiss, slower this time. Aziraphale’s left hand finds its way over to one long, lean thigh and runs up on the outer side of it from knee to sharp hipbone. It feels amazing - Crowley feels amazing, and Aziraphale wants so much more. More, he just can’t have. It takes all his willpower to pull back. Crowley whines at the loss of contact. Aziraphale gets him - It would be so easy to go on like this, continue the hazy, drunken groping on his couch as if they were two human teenagers, ignoring reality completely. 

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale holds up his hands when Crowley tries to follow him as he scoots back on the seat. “I’m afraid this is a terrible idea. We both had quite the shock today and we are both spectacularly drunk.” 

“We can sober up,” Crowley offers hopefully.

“That won’t change the fact that we are an angel and a demon. We are hereditary enemies. If our respective head offices get wind of this…”

“They don’t need to know a thing, angel. We can just…”

“No,” Aziraphale is proud of how firm he sounds, until he ruins it by adding, “Not tonight. I need to… I need to think this through.” 

Crowley flops back on couch, long legs spread out, arms crossed. Aziraphale has never seen a demon pout before and he finds it fascinating. He wants to pull Crowley close again, so to distance himself from the temptation he stands up. 

“Right. I’ll get us some water and some snacks.”

“Whatever for?”

“To help sobering up. That’s how humans do it.” 

“You realize we can just sober up like...?” he snaps his fingers.

“Yes, but…” Aziraphale sighs, not having any solid arguments. “I’ll just bring them anyway.”

He putters about his kitchen for much longer than necessary, trying to calm his thoughts and willing his erection away. What he wants to do is to rush back, lay Crowley down on his couch and ravish him until they are both breathless, messy and satisfied. What he wants he definitely _will not_ do. He repeats this to himself a couple of times. He takes his time until he’s sure he’ll be able to resist the urge to do something so reckless. 

When he returns, Crowley is asleep on the couch, body twisted at an odd angle, with both legs spread on the ground, his upper body laid flat on the seat and his head tipped back uncomfortably, with one of Aziraphale’s throw pillows tucked under his neck. He’s clutching the other pillow to his chest and he’s snoring quietly. Aziraphale's traitorous heart fills with tenderness. He puts the pitcher of water and crackers down carefully before crouching down next to the couch. He caresses the demon’s face lightly.

“My dear,” he whispers, “maybe it’s time for you to go somewhere more comfortable.”

“Hmm, nah, I’m cosy here,” Crowley mumbles, not sounding much awake. 

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” Aziraphale tuts, but he unties his boots and slips them off. Crowley doesn’t have hoofs or anything like that, just elegant feet clad is black socks. Aziraphale takes a guilty moment to caress the sliver of skin that’s visible just above his ankle. He then tucks those long legs up on the sofa and covers him with the afghan.

What a ridiculous excuse for a demon, he thinks, smiling down at the sleeping figure. So vulnerable and trusting around an angel. Was Heaven wrong all along about the Enemy or is Crowley special? It must be Crowley - Aziraphale has met and fought his fair share of demons back in the days and they were nothing like him. What a mess. What is he to do in this situation? This must be unprecedented.

Deciding on not deciding anything for the time being, he goes to bed with a book. He does not sober up. (He’d rather delay the wave of anxiety that’s surely to follow). He tries reading, but he keeps jumping back to the same sentence again and again, unable to keep his focus on the book. His thoughts keep venturing downstairs. Finally, the temptation to put off thinking about the whole situation till the morning proves to be irresistible, and Aziraphale does something he very rarely indulges in. He falls asleep.

He’s feeling regretfully sober when he wakes up in the morning. Guilt and doubts gnawing him, he bides his time before he ventures downstairs. (He’s also parched and has a nasty headache. He wonders if they count as repentance.) 

The couch in his back room is empty - there is no Crowley sleeping on it, just the neatly folded afghan cover and the pillows that show no sign of a demon even sleeping on them. The bottles of alcohol they went through the previous night are gone, the glasses standing crystal clean, lined neatly on the table. 

Despite reason, Aziraphale is deeply disappointed. This was surely the last he has seen of the demon. Which is for the best. He sits down on the couch, feeling lost. He pulls the crocheted blanket over his lap. 

The thing is, Aziraphale is lonely. He loves life on Earth just a bit too much and his heavenly duties just not enough. There’s no way he can talk about the simple pleasures he enjoys with any of the other angels. A… a… fling with Crowley, when he thought he was human, was entertaining and lovely, but it would have never been enough. With Crowley, the demon, Aziraphale could be so much more open and honest. And isn’t that horrible? The last creature he should be open and honest with is a demon. Yet, under such a short time, he felt more connection, more companionship with him than with his brethren under an eternity.

He lifts the blanket up to his face and inhales deeply. It smells faintly of cedar, ginger and smoke. The scent of smoke makes so much more sense now. Pathetic as he knows the gesture to be, he buries his face in the afghan, and stays like that for a long time. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a tentative chapter count 10, but it's likely to go slightly above that.

Crowley wakes up on a couch, which is not unusual for him. His mouth feels cotton-y and there’s a marching band practicing enthusiastically but without much finesse inside his skull. Again, not completely without precedent. The telly is not on, which is strange. Usually when he gets drunk and falls asleep in his living room, he has it on as a background noise. He stretches without opening his eyes and freezes mid-motion. 

His couch is a enormous, modern, hard-stuffed leather piece, comfortable only because it doesn’t dare not to be. The one he’s currently lying on is much shorter, way too soft and the material is … corduroy or some other monstrosity, he thinks as he runs his fingers over the top of the backseat. Which leaves him with the conclusion that he’s on _Someone Else’s_ couch. He opens his eyes to spot a pile of empty bottles on a low table and shelves overflowing with books all along the walls.

He’s in the bookshop. Fell’s bookshop. No. _Aziraphale’s_ bookshop, _the angel’s_ lair.

“Shit. Shit, shit, fuck,” he fights back his headache and nausea as he sits up suddenly. A blanket that he was apparently covered with slips from his shoulders. It’s the ugliest thing, some washed out beige colour with darker brown patterns - lilies maybe, though why anyone would crochet brown lilies onto a beige blanket is beyond him. Crowley stares at it blankly.

His mind catches up slowly. It was quite a Tuesday night, wasn’t it? Starting with how he found out about Fell’s true identity. How the buggering fuck did he not notice he was flirting with the Opposition?! There had to be all kinds of warning signs Crowley ignored; hesitancy and lies over simple questions like name and age. How, when in his presence, Crowley has felt closer to Her grace than ever since his Fall. That bloody angelic miracle he felt in the park, and what was Fell doing, miracling a bag of bread to feed to ducks? Were angels even supposed to do that?

(In fact, there are no strict guidelines for such cases, although mostly because it doesn’t even cross Upper Management’s mind that their field agents would use miracles for something so trivial.)

Shouldn’t angels save their miracles for something big? Like saving numerous people from being run over by a lunatic. Which was actually an awfully nice move from Fell. 

Maybe that’s why he let the angel drag him back here while Crowley… well Crowley just let himself be dragged, didn’t he? He didn’t try to escape, and he would have had a few chance for that, he knows. (But Fell… _Aziraphale_ is nothing like any other angel he’s met before.) Then, as unlikely as it sounds, they got drunk, didn’t they? Even if his memories are hard to trust here, Crowley’s hangover and the empty bottles on the table are proof enough that they did just that. They consumed a truly extraordinary amount of alcohol. And then they kissed. There was some touching involved too, or drunken groping, rather. Crowley can clearly recall a hand on his thigh, his own palms slipping under the angel’s shirt and touching smooth, warm skin. 

Crowley shuts the blind panic that tries to overtake him away and does his best to look at this event objectively. The angel sat down next to him on this awful sofa and they were… sharing compliments? Flirting, they were flirting rather openly, weren’t they? It was drunken and awkward, but it was still flirting. Crowley didn’t have his glasses on because… because he thought it a lark, showing his eyes to Fell. To Aziraphale. Right. He took his glasses off and the angel said his eyes were beautiful. 

There’s no way he can look at this objectively, he realizes as the panic returns full force. He got absolutely shit-faced with an angel, one he’d thought to be a human up till yesterday and snogged him on his couch. Then he apparently fell asleep, so the angel tucked him in with the most hideous blanket that was ever crocheted on the planet. It’s impossible not to panic. 

“What in Satan’s name was I thinking?” Crowley groans, but it’s a rhetorical question as he so obviously _wasn’t._ He needs to get going, before the angel returns, remembers who he is, and smites him back to Hell. 

He stands on wobbly legs and realizes he’s barefoot. His boots are lined up next to the couch and Crowley does _not_ deal with the certainty that it wasn’t him taking them off. He pulls them on quickly, then folds the ugly blanket. He can’t just leave it lying around in a lump, he’s not an animal. He snaps his fingers to make the empty bottles disappear. He feels like a man sneaking away after a one-night stand, and not leaving a mess behind makes him feel slightly less shitty about it. He considers leaving a note, but what would he write? _Thank you for not banishing me last night, and for all the booze. Your eyes are beautiful too, and I’ll forever think about kissing you. We must never meet again._

He slithers out of the shop. His watch tells him it’s only half four in the morning. London is still eerily quiet. The Bentley tries playing him I was Born to Love you.

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley growls and hits the power off button on his radio.

Over the week Crowley keeps busy. He spends Wednesday afternoon tempting a woman into adultery. Her husband is on a business trip and she invites a co-worker from the office for dinner into their apartment. There’s no doubt how the night will end, and she knows it well. (Her husband has grown colder and colder over the years. She suspects he has a lover - and she is right. Soon she’ll get a divorce and move in with that co-worker, start a new hobby and get a dog as she wanted for a long time, but her ex-husband always opposed.) The work binds Crowley to Luton for the major part of the day, which is fortunately far away from Soho.

On Thursday he feels cagey, so he takes the Bentley out for a day trip, speeding through country roads like there’s no tomorrow. Maybe he should go up to Scotland for a week or two, he thinks, and amuse himself with scaring the sheep. It’s almost ten in the evening by the time he gets back to London. 

On Friday he lures a corporate top-dog to watch porn on his company laptop at work. It doesn’t take much - a whisper in his ear, telling him he can get away with it, he can get away with _anything,_ he’s invincible. Then he makes sure the HR director catches him red-handed. She has been looking for some concrete evidence which gives her a solid basis to act on against him as it was, there were too many complaints but little to go by before. She’s more victorious than scandalized when she finds him jerking off in his office. There’s a moment when Crowley wonders what the angel would say about this all - one soul a step closer to Hell, but so many others relieved to be rid of such a horrendous manager. Well, no use in wondering as he’ll never learn about it.

Saturday is the last day of a larger project he’s been working on for a while. A cable gets cut at the bottom of the Atlantic, rendering the internet unavailable for the larger part of Wales and England, causing a major annoyance for everyone who doesn’t have a night out planned. 

Unfortunately, this includes Crowley, whose plan for the evening was to watch Bake Off on Netflix. (Not because the cakes make him think of _Someone_ , he just likes Mary Berry.) He goes to bed early and does not fantasise about soft, pink lips wrapping around a piece of cake on a fork and moaning in appreciation when they lick cream off a spoon. He fantasises even less about those lips wrapping around anything else but utensils _and_ moaning in appreciation. That’s simply unthinkable, so Crowley does. not. think. about it.

On Sunday he lurks around a church. The young priest is so nervous before the mass that Crowley doesn’t have the heart to tempt him into anything at all. He pats his shoulders (which leaves his hand stinging unpleasantly) and tells him he’ll do well. 

“Thank you, son,” the priest smiles at him gratefully. “Will I see you at the mass?”

_When Hell freezes over,_ Crowley thinks, but just mutters an apology.

He goes home to watch the telly as he still has no internet. Luckily, he finds a Golden Girls marathon which makes the day just a little more bearable.

He can’t possibly face Monday, so he stays in his flat and does nothing much at all. He has Netflix back, but Bake Off doesn't entertain him. He finds Paul Hollywood too much of a jerk, the cakes too sugary, the poor excuse of a British summer in the background too depressing. 

He takes out the hideous tartan scarf Fell has wrapped around his neck on their date in the art galleries. He keeps it in his wardrobe and planned to give it back at one point, but now never will. (It’s a crime against humanity, so it would have been a demonic deed to allow Fell… _Aziraphale_ to wear it in public again.) He lies down on his couch, covers himself with it and sleeps the rest of the day away.

On Tuesday he dresses smartly and heads out for the bookshop. “What the fuck am I doing?” he asks himself more than once, but he still does it. He styles his hair, puts on his nice jacket that makes his shoulders look broader and his hips slimmer, gets in the Bentley. She plays him Another One Bites the Dust. So unhelpful. 

“You can still turn back,” he tells himself as he parks in front of the shop. “This is madness,” he adds when he steps up to the door. 

The bell jingles as merrily as ever when he enters. He hides behind a shelf when he hears the angel’s voice. He peeks out from behind books to find him arguing with a customer. A customer-not-to-be.

“As I’ve said, my dear man,” he says in an impudent tone that makes Crowley grin, “this first edition of Being Earnest is _unfortunately_ not for sale. I do _not_ care about the sum you’re willing to pay. I’m not changing my mind on the matter.”

The man looks like he wants to argue further but then a confounded expression overcomes his face. Without further ado, he turns around and hurries out. Crowley would bet he just remembered he left the gas on at home. He catches the wisp of a minor miracle this time, and he thinks it hilarious that the angel uses his Heavenly power to get rid of unwanted customers. 

Still amused and thus not thinking this through, he steps out from behind the relative safety of the shelf.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” he greets, dragging out all of the syllables in the angel’s name, strutting up to him as cool as he can manage. “That’s an interesting customer care skill you have there.”

“Crowley,” the angel responds with obvious surprise. “Good gracious,” he gives him a once-over, and Crowley can’t decide if it’s the usual, appreciating look, or maybe an I-will-smite-this-demon’s-skinny-arse kind of one. “Well,” he says at long last, cradling the book close to his chest, “he has been incredibly rude.”

“Trying to purchase a book in a bookshop? The nerve of some people.”

“Not just any book. Oscar has signed this one for me, so I wouldn’t part from it.”

“Been friends with Wilde, huh? Why am I not surprised?”

“I assure you, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure, you don’t,” Crowley allows his nervous grin to soften into a teasing smile. If they are talking about Wilde, surely the angel doesn’t plan to pick a fight. “Can I see it?”

“Oh, I… here, but be careful. It’s well over a hundred years old.”

Crowley takes the book, fully aware of how precious it is for its owner. He doesn’t care about Wilde (he always found him an arrogant bastard) or the book's age, but Aziraphale trusting him with it makes him feel all jittery. It’s unexpected and makes his heart do complicated gymnastics in his chest.

“To my dear friend, A.Z. Fell,” he reads out loud and raises an eyebrow. “Well, at least it’s not _Arthur.”_

“Hush, you,” Aziraphale casts him an unimpressed look, but there’s a smile lurking in the corner of his lips. When Crowley handles back the book he turns to put it away, leaving the demon standing alone in the middle of the shop. After a moment of hesitation he follows him to the backroom. He eyes the ugly couch there with its even uglier blanket with mixed feelings. 

The angel puts his cherished volume back to its place and faces him with apparent nervousness, twisting his fingers together. Crowley tries to come up with something witty but fails short.

“So, erm. Yeah. Ngggh.” Brilliant, just brilliant. 

“Would you like some tea?” Aziraphale asks suddenly, probably driven by the need to have something to do with his hands.

“Nah, thanks. I’m more of a coffee person.”

He regrets declining, as they just stand there, awkwardly facing the other. Aziraphale sighs.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Crowley. I didn’t think I’ll see you again, everything considered.”

“Ngk. Y’know. I was nearby and was thinking, ‘Hey, it’s Tuesday, why don’t I drop in and ask the angel if he wants to grab some lunch.’ So. Yeah. Here I am.”

Aziraphale regards him for a long moment, face quite unreadable.

“I’ll just grab my coat then,” he says softly, and it takes Crowley a second or two to realize they _are_ going out for lunch.

It’s somehow a lot less awkward than it should be. They go to the sushi place nearby. Raw fish isn’t something Crowley cares much for, but Aziraphale does, and watching him eat is more important than Crowley eating. 

(He sometimes doesn’t eat for decades. As long as he has coffee and alcohol, his demonic corporation seems happy enough to function.)

“So, dear boy, how have you been?” the angel asks him casually as they wait for the food.

“Nghh, the usual. Busy. Work.” He really shouldn’t say much about that, should he?

“I will assume it’s not _freelancing,_ after all.” Aziraphale says dryly and Crowley can’t help his own rueful grin at that.

“No, I’m afraid it’s a permanent contract,” although does he wish it wasn’t so. 

“Hm,” the angel doesn’t look happy with the reminder that he’s sitting in a sushi bar with a demon. 

“You probably noticed how there was no internet _for days?_ That was me,” because apparently not only does he talk, but he even _brags_ about his work. Nice one, Crowley. 

“Oh, I don’t use the… how do they call it? The _World Wide Web._ (Nobody calls it the world wide web, Crowley mutters but he’s ignored.) Is it being down such a bad thing? I’d think people will be more inclined to have a spirited conversation with each other _in person_ or get immersed in a good book if they can’t get connected onto this virtual network.”

“Nhh, nah, don’t say that. Lots of them were frustrated,” Crowley refuses to think his deed wasn’t purely evil. “Just _think_ about it for a moment, will you? People nowadays can’t carry on their lives without being online. The internet down ‘s like… like... No Facebook. No Twitter. No porn. No _Netflix._ You get my point. _”_

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale smiles, not looking impressed at all. “I see how that was the work of a diabolic genius. Should I say congratulations on the job well done?”

“You’re the strangest angel I’ve ever met,” Crowley states and knows his smile is hopelessly fond.

“You don’t strike me as a typical demon either, my dear.”

Their food arrives, leaving Crowley to stew over that statement in silence.

Aziraphale starts to chatter about the sushi he had in Japan when he visited the country in the Muromachi period, and Crowley offers the retelling of his own adventures when he travelled the Silk Road with Marco Polo. He sticks to the funny stories and basks in joy when the angel laughs. It’s the strangest thing, but he finds talking to him now, knowing he’s an angel, even more entertaining. He doesn’t have to omit his stories (too much) but can talk about his life rather more openly than he could with anyone ever before. He never had a chit chat with any other angel (not since he stopped being one, at any rate), and his fellow demons are so unpleasant, the last thing he wants is to share funny stories with them. (Their perception of funny tends to be drastically different than Crowley’s, too.)

That has always left him chatting with humans, which he enjoys well enough, but… There are so many things he can’t possibly bring up, for example him being a demon.

(If it’s not one of those weird satanic cults or something like a Witches' Sabbath, but Crowley does his best to avoid those.)

He can’t get nostalgic about his travels with a [Venetian](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Republic_of_Venice) merchant in the 13th century with them, tell about how he got completely shit-faced with Milione in various tents, inns, and other shady establishments throughout Asia or how he helped him write his sometimes wildly inaccurate memoirs for the laugh. 

“The funniest thing was,” he explains to the angel, “how people didn’t believe him when he was actually right. Marco just stuck to his version though, no matter if it was true or not. He was a good sport, I liked him a lot.”

“I did enjoy his book, and all the later versions other people made from it,” Aziraphale chuckles. “I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting him, though. I was up in Scotland at the time, trying to smooth things over. Not that it worked out too well. I’m afraid Edward was not, as you put it, a good sport.”

“I can imagine,” Crowley smirks, enjoying this reminiscing of mortals who lived centuries ago all too much. Aziraphale talks about places, people and events all but forgotten by humanity as if he was there, met them and saw them happen just yesterday. It’s strange, having someone who he can recite his own memories to.

And fuck him, but he doesn’t find Aziraphale any less desirable than he did when he thought he was edging towards some kind of an affair with a human. It doesn’t help that he keeps recalling their drunken snogging on the couch and hopes he’ll get the chance to do that and more again, hopefully while sober. 

Is that something the angel would consider? To have an illicit romance or whatever it would be with a demon? (It’s not something a demon should consider, but Crowley does, boy, he does.) 

He realises Aziraphale stopped talking and is smiling softly down at his sushi. Knowing he was caught staring; Crowley fights a blush. ( _Was_ he caught staring? He’s wearing his glasses.)

“This is quite strange, isn’t it?” the angel muses. “We were heading towards a… _certain direction,_ weren’t we? It’s not so easy to let that go. Of course,” he hastily adds when Crowley visibly perks up, “we shouldn’t, no, we can’t consider continuing like that now.”

“Don’t say that,” Crowley is suddenly desperate not to let this go. Him dating Fell (the undercover angel) has been the best thing that happened to him in a long while. “ _This_ doesn’t have to complicate things.”

“ _This_ being us finding out we’re on opposite sides already complicated things beyond imagination, my dear… Crowley,” He frowns, as if displeased with himself that he let the endearment slip out. 

“No, no, listen,” Crowley leans forward. He has something here and he just can’t let it slither from his fingers. “It’s actually pretty straightforward. We now know what the other is, so we just have to be careful of certain things. But we can help each other out, and _this..._ this can be a mutually beneficial arrangement.” 

“A mutually beneficial arrangement,” Aziraphale repeats slowly with a deep frown on his face. “I… I really don’t think my side would like that.”

“Our sssides don’t have to know anything about this,” Crowley urges, hissing as his emotions run rampant. His pulse quickens in excitement. Suddenly it’s the most important thing in the world, not to lose this strange angel.

“I’m not going to lie to Heaven!” Aziraphale looks more terrified than scandalized by the idea. 

“You don’t have to lie to them”, he soothes quickly. “You just… don’t have to mention it at all. You wouldn’t have gone and reported your, ehh, _romance_ with a human either, right? So, we just… don’t say a thing. Keep it quiet.”

“I’m really not sure…”

“Look at it this way, angel. You can keep a close eye on the Opposition. Keep me back from causing trouble.”

“Thwart your wiles?” Aziraphale’s gaze is intense on him. “Keep you on a tight leash?” Crowley’s mouth is suddenly dry. He’s not quite sure if they are engaging in some strange, sexual innuendo right now. His dick certainly thinks so, that tone and that look alone enough for it to start to harden in his suddenly uncomfortably tight pants. He clears his throat before he repeats the sultriest he can manage.

“Exactly. You can thoroughly thwart _all_ my wiles. And y’know. Pull that leash tight.”

Aziraphale blinks at him in surprise. Crowley blushes. It might have been in his head only, after all. But then the angel glances sideways, wringing fingers together in that nervous sort of way of his, a blush on his cheeks. The embarrassed heat in Crowley’s chest blossoms out into something lot more pleasant. He tries to pull his lips into a predatory smirk, but he suspects he is simply grinning like a loon. 

“Ahh, yes, well. I...as you say, my dear...” he hasn’t been able to unbalance Aziraphale many times, so Crowley truly enjoys this little victory. Especially now, that he knows him to be an angel. He does visibly collect himself and raises an unamused eyebrow at Crowley’s obvious enjoyment over his embarrassment. “I _obviously_ can’t promise anything. This is all rather new and unexpected.”

(Crowley can’t know for sure, but he suspects, and he’s right in his assumption, that Aziraphale doesn’t deal easily with the new and unexpected.)

“That's all right, angel,” he says softly. “You take your time.” _But you are not getting rid of me,_ he resists adding.

“We have to be careful, not to be seen,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley takes it as a good sign, him thinking this over. 

“We can come up with discreet rendezvous scenes. Use a bit of a code language,” he suggests excitedly, ever a fan of spy-movies. Aziraphale looks sceptic.

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt,” he allows. (Crowley thinks it might be only to humour him, and he’s right in this assumption as well.) “Our side won’t think anything is strange if we’re smart enough. I mean _we_ haven’t noticed anything, and I don’t know about your lot, but my people aren’t necessarily the most, ah, perceptive when it comes to noticing human oddities. But Crowley,” he holds his hand up in warning, “we have to be careful. _If_ we are to keep meeting, which I haven’t said yes to.”

“We’re gonna be careful, angel. Discretion is my middle name.”

“Anthony D. Crowley?” he asks with a tight smile. 

“Anthony J., actually.”

“What does the J stand for?”  
  


“‘S just a J, really,” Crowley mutters. “I got quite the name as a Secret Intelligence Agent under the Great War. The second one. So, I know all about undercover work.”

“I did some double-crossing of Nazis myself,” Aziraphale chuckles. “Although I can’t claim espionage is not my forte, I’m afraid.”

“You leave that with me. I’ll arrange everything, the meetings, the covers, the bloody codes,” he tries to catch himself, well aware that he’s sounding exactly as desperate as he feels. He _has to_ convince the angel to keep meeting him. For whatever reason it’s more important than anything else in the whole damned world.

(Crowley is not very good at analysing his own emotions. As a demon he’s not supposed to have a whole lot of them, other than greed, spite and the like. He’s also not very good at being a demon.)

Aziraphale is hesitating, he can tell. Driven by a sudden impulse and the memory of the angel calling his eyes beautiful, he takes his glasses off to look him in the eye. He wants to say _trust me,_ but he can’t ask an angel to trust a demon. His message still seems to get across, if that small curving of those lovely lips is any indication.

“I guess,” Aziraphale says quietly, “we can give it a try. Keeping in touch. See how it goes.”

Letting a relieved grin split his face, Crowley extends his hand. After a moment of hesitation, the angel shakes it. 

“I better get back to the shop,” Aziraphale says with an obvious lack of enthusiasm after Crowley, as usual, pays for the lunch. “This was quite an extended break.”

“I asked this before, but why a bookshop?”

“It seemed like a perfect cover at the time,” Aziraphale sighs. “I might have made a slight miscalculation in how annoying it will be to have actual customers.”

“Why not just close it up?”

“That would be unseemly!” he protests. “It’s a bookshop, it _has to_ open now and then.”

Crowley walks him back. Aziraphale has his hands clasped behind his back, so he can’t take them, but still their arms touch and that’s enough for now.

Not ready to leave, he ends up sitting behind the counter for a few hours. He tells the angel he’s working on his phone, (he _is_ working, he’s posting some comments on his favourite forums which are bound to cause quite a stir) but he’s mostly watching Aziraphale from behind the safety of his glasses. The angel is very creative in getting rid of browsers and wannabe buyers, although he catches him selling a book at a ridiculously low price to a uni student. The girl gushes on and on about how brilliant Wilde was, and Aziraphale matches her, until they are singing a fucking love song about _Oscar_. Of course, the book he sells is not a precious first edition dedicated to _dear friend, A.Z. Fell._ ( _Bloody Wilde,_ Crowley mutters, and refuses to be jealous of a man dead for over a hundred years.)

“Look,” he tells Aziraphale when all the customers are taken care of and he can’t come up with any further excuse to stay. “I wrote down my number, you can call me from your horrible landline anytime you want,” he pushes the piece of paper over to him. “My address is on it too.” Aziraphale smiles down at it as if it’s something precious. Crowley melts a bit further. “I was thinking you could come over one of the evenings and we can watch some movies together. Catch you up a bit with the 21st century. We’ll order in some food too.”

“That sounds lovely, dear boy. I’ll give you a call later this week, and we can discuss?”

“You do that, angel. I’ll be waiting.”

Aziraphale waves him goodbye from the door of his shop, ( _Mind how you go, my dear)_ so Crowley resists his urge to do a victory dance or to whoop in joy. The Bentley plays him We are the Champions. 

“That’s what I am, baby,” Crowley agrees with her. “That’s what I am.”


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale spends the next two days alternating between an elated state of joy and sheer panic. He keeps thinking about Crowley, how he came back to the bookshop despite all logic, how he trusted Aziraphale not to fight him. It was simply wonderful to go out to lunch with him again, to have such a free conversation, to make plans for the week. 

The dread arrives then, slamming into him, taking hold of his whole being. He shook hands with a demon, signalling his agreement to some very unclear Arrangement. They didn’t even specify terms, just that they will give their… acquaintance? friendship? relationship? a go. Did he lose his mind? What if Gabriel or someone else Upstairs finds out? What if this is nothing but a diabolic plan to make him Fall? What if Crowley planned this all along? What if he made Aziraphale believe he is nice and kind and really rather lovely, but it’s all a deceit? 

He calms down slowly, reassuring himself that Crowley is not such a good actor, that he might be a demon but he’s still a genuinely good person, as controversial as that sounds. That leads to more daydreaming about him, which ends when the freight takes hold of him… and so on and so forth. It’s exhausting, to say the least.

He tries to take a relaxing bubble bath - his flat above the shop mostly consists of books piling on any available surface, but he does have a rather luxurious bathroom with a large, clawfoot tub. He lights some candles, pours a generous portion of lavender scented lotion in the water for the bubbles, puts on some Chopin and immerses himself. 

His thoughts, of course, wander back to Crowley again. When Aziraphale calls him… _if_ Aziraphale calls him… Well, it is a _when_ isn’t it? There’s no use pretending he isn’t going to do it. Even if he shouldn't. Damn it. 

When/if Aziraphale calls Crowley and they make plans for the week, what should he prepare for? Will they progress further whatever they have been doing? Will they take the next logical step in their dates? (Aziraphale has the tendency not to call things on their names, even in the privacy of his own mind. What he’s wondering about if he can expect to have sex with Crowley this week. He certainly hopes so.)

He sinks lower into his hot bath and lets his hand slide between his thighs. He takes himself in hand, caressing the soft skin of his member just with the tips of his fingers. While Aziraphale's mind is less than settled on the matter, his body certainly knows what it wants. 

Crowley will look beautiful naked, he thinks, as he starts to harden. He grasps himself more firmly as he moves his hand still slowly but with intent. The demon is so slender, handsome and attractive. Aziraphale is a great admirer of beauty and Crowley’s sharpness really draws him in. He wants to feel all those angles against his much softer corporation. Aziraphale wants to lay him down on the bed and kiss each and every part of his body. He’d love to pamper him - would Crowley let him do that, or would he want something faster and more vigorous? 

Aziraphale’s hand speeds up on his cock. What will Crowley like, he wonders. He has that restless energy surrounding him most of the time that Aziraphale wanted to soothe since the first day they’ve met. Will Crowley let him take charge and make sure all his anxiety is chased away?

Are demons supposed to be like that, he can’t help but wonder. Edgy and twitchy, snarky, and seemingly so sure of themselves, but hiding an insecurity that lies so close to the surface? Or is it just Crowley? Is it a wonder Aziraphale hasn’t realized he’s dealing with one of the Enemy? Would Gabriel realize who is he speaking to if he was to meet Crowley? If he appeared unexpectedly in the bookshop when Crowley was there, would he recognise the nature of him or think him a regular human customer?

As it turns out, nothing kills Aziraphale’s erection quite as surely as thoughts about Gabriel. He sits up straight in the tub and frowns at his now very much flaccid penis under the water. (It would only take a thought for his cock to perk up again, but sex is such a human thing, and Aziraphale much prefers to do it the human way. If the arousal is gone, he lets it go.)

He needs to get out this circle, this just can’t continue. He either must call Crowley or put him out of his mind for good. Out of those two options only one is sensible, only one won’t endanger both him and the demon he made friends with. (No, they are not friends, he corrects himself. Acquaintances due to a misunderstanding.)

He lasts until Friday afternoon before he calls Crowley. The phone rings out twice before it’s answered with a drawn-out _Hello_. The only reason Aziraphale doesn’t slam the receiver down is his suspicion Crowley might use some demonic insight to know it’s him.

“Crowley? It’s me.”

“I know it’s you, Aziraphale,” comes the amused response. (Hah! Aziraphale thinks, he was right.)

“How do you know it’s me?”

“One, I recognise your voice and two, I have your number saved, so I _saw_ it was you before I answered.”

“Oh, you can _see_ on your phone who is calling? That’s a very clever invention, I have to admit.”

“Angel,” Crowley laughs softly, “we need to get you a smartphone.”

“Nonsense, my dear. My phone is perfectly functional. It doesn’t have to be any smarter than this.”

“I saw it, angel, archaeological museums would pay a nice sum for that monster.”

“He says, while he drives that _retro_ automobile,” all his gnawing doubts and concerns forgotten, Aziraphale smiles happily at their banter.

“It’s _vintage_ , angel,” Crowley groans, but it’s clearly exaggerated. “She’s a 1933 Bentley, you can’t go around calling her _retro.”_

“I’ll offer my sincerest apologies to your truly infernal car on the unlikely chance I’ll ever go near it again,” Aziraphale says cheerfully. When Crowley just sputters in response, he mentally claims victory and moves on to why he’s actually calling. “Listen, Crowley,” there’s silence on the other end of the line, the demon catching up with the suddenly serious tone. “If your offer still stands, I’d love to visit you at your apartment when it’s convenient for you.”

“Nkg, yeah, I mean, Hell, off course,” when Crowley feels off-balance, he starts to sputter and utter these strings of nonsensical sounds, Aziraphale noticed. He finds it very charming. “Right now, if you want to, I’ll just get home quickly. Like. I’m almost there.”

“What do you say about tomorrow evening?” now that Aziraphale decided to do this, he’s set to do it properly, without a rush. “I’ll go over around seven, we order some food and you pick whatever movie you want to see. If that suits you as well, of course.”

“That sounds perfect, angel. I’ll… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, my dear boy.”

He hangs the receiver up feeling pleased and manages not to get into another panicky cycle until the afternoon of the next day.

Throughout the ages, Aziraphale’s feelings about the changing fashion trends have been controversial to say the very least. Once humans discovered clothing, they progressed through from it being a practical protection against the elements to it being a sensational statement at an alarmingly fast rate. And they kept changing their opinions on what was fashionable so fast! Most often, by the time Aziraphale kept the hang of one trend he had to realize they were already on the next one, and whatever he was dressed in was horribly outdated.

Some styles he really liked, and they were difficult to let go. He loved the funny little hats with their feathers in the 16th century and while he tried not to be vain, he personally thought that he had the calves to pull off hoses. He really liked the stockings and breeches in fashion under the long reign of Louis XIV too. While visiting the court was always more pain than pleasure, he found all the frills and pearls and of course the high heels quite amusing.

For a while Aziraphale truly enjoyed all the fabulous clothing. Maybe even a bit too much, as not changing them with the turn of times landed him in quite the mess under the Reign of Terror. (It was the most hard-earned crepes he ever had. But they were really delicious.) 

He made sure to stick with more demure clothing after that. (They were more fitting for an angel anyway.) As he often did throughout history, he has been taking a break from fashion for the last, oh, has to be seventy or eighty years now. Or, in the case of some select pieces of clothing even more. His favourite overcoat is in daily use and kept in a tip-top condition for 180 years. Nowadays, especially at a place like London, it seems people wear literally anything and everything, so it doesn’t matter much if he’s up to date or not. Aziraphale suspects he could don in his old Roman toga and not a head would turn if he walked down the streets of Soho dressed in it. (He quite liked the toga.)

Aziraphale is very much comfortable with his daily clothing, the sensible trousers and his favourite, threadbare waistcoat. He _knows_ the bow ties raise a few eyebrows, but on one hand he finds this quite amusing and on the other hand they are _tartan_ , and nobody can convince Aziraphale that tartan is not stylish. 

He thinks it’s very uncharacteristic of him to hesitate in front of his wardrobe as he gets ready for this movie-night with Crowley but hesitate he does. Will Crowley even care what he is wearing? Admittedly, Aziraphale can be a bit obtuse sometimes (for example not noticing a demon even when he starts to date one), but even for him it’s very much obvious that Crowley finds him attractive. Which is an awfully nice thing of him to do, seeing what a gorgeous creature he himself is. 

Still, wouldn’t it be nice to send a message? Dressing up to show his interest? Maybe Crowley will take his glasses off again to show his beautiful, unique eyes and look at him with hunger in them. Crowley always presents himself so carefully and to such a wonderful effect. Maybe he’ll appreciate Aziraphale doing the same for once as well. 

There isn’t too much to choose from in his wardrobe. He could miracle new clothes for himself, but humans are so much better at the design, and Aziraphale has standards. That’s what he has a tailor for, but there’s no time to order in a new set of three-piece suit - he checks his watch - two hours before their date.

Well, he can’t just stand around in his underwear, can he? He reaches for his favourite shirt when a thought occurs to him. In the department store where he usually buys his briefs, socks and undershirts, they sell full-set clothing too, now don’t they? It just never crossed Aziraphale’s mind before that he could buy something like that ready-made. But he’s planning to spend the night in the _devil’s lair,_ maybe it’s the right time to be adventurous.

Half an hour later, feeling intoxicated by his own daring, Aziraphale steps into Harrods and seeks out the men’s department.

He explains to a young shop assistant, (Liam, as his nametag claims) what he’s looking for. Something in light colour, a full set, something that’s a bit more, ahh, _modern_ than what he’s currently wearing. 

“What price range are you thinking about?” Liam asks, eyeing his waistcoat where it’s worn thin around the buttons dubiously.

“Money is not the matter,” Aziraphale reassures him cheerfully. “I don’t buy new clothes too often, but when I do, I want them to be the best quality.”

“Any special occasion you have in mind, sir? Formal wear or something more casual?”

“Oh, it’s an, ah… date. You see, my… my beau,” what is he supposed to call Crowley to a stranger? Aziraphale is sure he’s blushing, but he soldiers on bravely, “He’s dressing very fashionably, and I wanted to show I care how I look when I meet him. I’m aware I am a bit… behind the times in these.”

Liam’s whole posture softens at that. He smiles at Aziraphale warmly, assures him they’ll find something he looks properly dashing in, and ushers him towards the changing rooms. 

The trousers are easy enough. They are a darker tan than his usual pair and definitely a tighter fit, but not uncomfortably so. (“Ralph Lauren”, Liam says, whoever he may be.) The loafers Liam suggests are a soft suede, in a friendly chocolate brown. The shirt isn’t too difficult either. 

“Would you consider a polo shirt?” Liam asks with a slight frown. “Or maybe a turtleneck? Yes, a turtleneck would look great on you.”

“Let’s not get carried away, dear boy,” Aziraphale smiles at him. “This is quite a change for me as it is.”

Liam smiles back as if they are sharing an inside joke and goes to bring Aziraphale proper, button-down, long sleeved shirts. They settle on one so light beige it’s almost white. They have a brief debate whether Aziraphale needs a bow tie or not. The angel is on the opinion that bow ties generally compliment any outfit. The young human strongly disagrees. 

“With no disrespect to you, Arthur,” they settled on a first name basis around the second pairs of shoes Aziraphale tried on. He offered Arthur as his, and Liam, opposed to Crowley, has no qualms believing that’s his name. “If you are not wearing a black tux, a bow tie won’t compliment the outfit at all.”

“You are unfair to this lovely piece of clothing, my boy,” Aziraphale chides. “I’m very fond of mines and have quite a collection. They were very much flourishing in France back in… well, the 18th and 19th century.”

“You wanted modern,” Liam points out with a grin.

“That’s true,” Aziraphale admits defeat with a sigh. 

“Don’t button it up all the way,” Liam gently swats Aziraphale’s hands away and makes sure the shirt’s neck is open exactly the way he deems it perfect. His hands might hover for a moment longer than it’s strictly professional and his gaze is appreciating as he takes Aziraphale in. “Now you just need a blazer.”

The blazer proves a bit of a challenge, but Liam is not a quitter. He leaves the big guns for the end. 

“Now, this is a Canali, a wool-cashmere-silk blend, so it’s above a grand. Just try it on, I’m curious how it looks on you, then we can find something more sensibly priced.”

The “Canali” fits perfectly. Aziraphale beams at Liam and tells him he’ll take it along with everything else.

“You look dashing in it, Arthur, but take a look at the tag, just in case.”

Aziraphale does, takes in the four-digit number printed there and affirms it is alright. They smile at each other in the mirror. Liam brushes out a non-existent wrinkle on the blazer and lets his hand linger for a bit.

“If your date won’t go as you planned,” he says in a low tone. “I like older men. Especially one dressed so impeccably.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, my dear,” Aziraphale feels flattered, even if he won't take him up on the hinted offer. “But I do hope the date will go splendidly. We have this connection.”

“That’s just my luck,” Liam notes cheerfully. “What do you say, should we look for a new coat, too?”

The new trench coat reaches down mid-thigh, has a very favourable cut and a pleasant beige colour. It is even more expensive than the blazer. It is a “Burberry”, a brand Aziraphale has actually heard of before as they have been around for a while and because they are famous for -

“Oh, what a lovely tartan pattern,” he’s overjoyed to see the lining of it. He feels this is a good compromise for his missing bow tie.

He gets Liam cut all the labels so he can stay in his new outfit and has his old one put away in a large paper bag. The lady behind the counter blinks at him in surprise as he pulls out eighty pieces of crisp, fifty-pound notes from his wallet, one after each other. (Aziraphale doesn’t really understand how credit cards are supposed to work - how do the shops get the actual money if he just handles over a piece of plastic? He prefers to conjure his notes rather. He doesn’t know anything about the concept of fake money, so all his notes are perfectly genuine, not even the most rigorous Bank of England employee would find anything wrong with them.)

Liam waves him goodbye.

“If you want to expand your wardrobe further, or look for a new date after all, you know where to find me.”

(Aziraphale silently blesses him, so he will receive an extra large bonus at the end of the month. He’s also about to assist another middle-aged gentleman of a more-than-stable financial background with his shopping at Harrods which will lead them to fall passionately in love with each other.)

When nobody is watching he sends the bag containing his old clothing home with a miracle. Keeping the note containing Crowley’s number and address would have been too risky, so he burnt the piece of paper to ensure there’s no written evidence of their… consorting. However, he has them memorised both. On his walk to Mayfair, he stops at a Sainsbury and is delighted to find a bottle of Dom Pérignon Vintage. He also takes a detour to a florist, where, after a long deliberation, he buys a bouquet of dark red roses.

He’s fifteen minutes late in the end, but he hopes that’s still quite acceptable. Crowley lives in a very modern and expensive looking building. There’s a gate with a code at the entrance, which Aziraphale finds confusing, so decides to just ignore. It opens up welcomingly enough as he walks up to it, just as the lift does. 

He knocks on the door of the apartment and hears the grumbling voice of Crowley as he hurries to the door.

“...finally… I thought you weren’t coming after all…”

He swings the door open wide then just stands there, staring at Aziraphale. (The angel is sure his glance darts between the bouquet, the bottle, and his new coat, although, regrettably, he is wearing his dark glasses.)

“Mind if I come in?” the angel asks with a coy smile and the demon steps aside wordlessly.

Aziraphale is very glad he decided on the nice new clothes because Crowley obviously picked his outfit very carefully. (As usual.) They stand, looking at each other without a word for quite a while, before Aziraphale catches himself.

“These are for you, my darling” he handles the flowers over, “I hope you like roses. I also brought something drinkable for us.”

There’s a long string of sputtered nonsensical sounds emitting from Crowley, a sign he’s very much caught off guard. He mutters something about liking roses and getting a vase for them. Aziraphale brings the Dom Pérignon over to the kitchen to set it down on the counter and hangs his new, fancy Burberry coat on a rack near the door.

Crowley returns, clutching a black vase with the red roses close to his chest. He stops for a second and then he _prowls_ around Aziraphale in an almost full circle, like a sleek, large cat, who’s not sure whether to eat or not the sudden visitor that appeared in his territory. 

“Nice clothes,” he comments at last, letting go of the flowers as he places the vase down on a low table.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale bounces slightly on the ball of his feet, pleased. 

“I like the, uh, the shirt and the, y’know, jacket and all. Looks good on you.”

“I was hoping you’ll like them,” Aziraphale smiles at him.

“Yeah. Ngk. Mind if I kiss you now?”

“No. I wouldn’t mind that at all,” Aziraphale admits with a soft smile. The next instant Crowley is right in front of him, tossing his shades in the direction of the kitchen table, but obviously uncaring where they will land. He’s taller than Aziraphale, maybe with two or three inches, and he has to lean in, swoop down as if he’s some bird of prey on a hunt.

The kiss is soft at first, just the peck of lips, but then they shift, Crowley’s hand sliding under Aziraphale’s new blazer and they move even closer, bodies pressed flush against the other. The buckle of Crowley’s belt presses into the soft flesh of his belly and it should be uncomfortable, but it just highlights how their bodies are so close together. Crowley’s shirt is silky under his fingers and fitting his slender form perfectly. As Aziraphale runs his hands up his side he can feel him trembling slightly, his muscles taunt. He loops his fingers under the wide leather belt and tugs, until there’s no space left between them at all. 

Crowley makes a choked off sound and backs Aziraphale against some kitchen furniture. The kiss is now all tongue and teeth, desperate and messy. When Aziraphale pushes one thigh experimentally between Crowley’s legs, the demon groans into his mouth. He starts to roll his hips, and he’s just as hard as the angel is, it’s obvious even through the thick denim material of his trousers. Aziraphale grabs his lovely buttocks and they feel just as amazing in his hands as they look in those jeans.

They both could go on like this, humping each other in Crowley’s kitchen with all their clothes still on, until they find their release. While that certainly has an allure, it seems a bit rushed. They haven’t even specified what this _Arrangement_ should contain, they need to talk. Also, Aziraphale is in his brand new, nice clothes, and while it is very flattering how much Crowley is appreciating them, it would be a shame to stain the trousers straight away. (Stains, of course, can be miracled away, but Aziraphale always remains conscious of them being there, _underneath_.)

“Crowley,” he croaks, turning his head away, which doesn’t stop the demon at all. He just starts to lay biting, sucking kisses down his neck as he can’t reach his mouth. It distracts Aziraphale a whole lot away from his plan of slowing things down. It takes a while until he remembers bringing it up at all again. “Crowley,” he repeats more firmly when he does at last. “Wait.”

With obvious reluctance, the demon pulls back slightly. Their legs are still entwined together, only the furniture behind Aziraphale’s back keeping them upright.

“If you tell me you changed your mind, angel,” Crowley’s voice is hoarse with arousal, “I’m probably gonna die. No pressure, just stating facts.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Aziraphale kisses the tip of his slightly crooked nose. “We had _plans_ for this evening, it would be a shame to skip them completely.”

“Plans,” Crowley repeats dumbly.

“Dinner? Movie? You haven’t even shown me around in your apartment.”

“Right, plans,” he says again, less dazed this time. He steps back and Aziraphale instantly regrets the loss of his body against his. But one of them must be the sensible one here. (Aziraphale ignores the dubious sensibility of walking into a demon’s lair, armed with nothing but roses, an expensive bottle of wine and an expensive new set of clothes.)

“If you don’t mind,” Aziraphale says gently.

“Ugh, no, you’re right. Just got carried away. Nice clothes. S’ different. Like them. Right,” he gives Aziraphale a once-over, gaze lingering a fraction longer than necessary at the point where the angel’s hard cock still tents his trousers. “Dinner should be here in half an hour, actually, hope you don’t mind I ordered. Will show you around before. This way.”

He turns away and rearranges his hard-on in his jeans in what he maybe thinks is a discreet manner. It is a very absurd thing to find romantic, but here it is; Crowley could easily get rid of an inconvenient erection, yet he chooses not to. Just as Aziraphale decides to keep his own, even if dinner will be a sweet torture like this. He can’t help but rather adore Crowley for humouring him so.

Crowley gives him the tour around his apartment, although they are both rather distracted. His flat is a strange combination of barren and dramatic, with its bleak concrete walls and what, for all appearances, is a _throne_ in his study _._ There is some surprising choice of art, including -

“Is that a Da Vinci?”

“Leo was a great guy,” Crowley tells him with a smile and an angel isn’t supposed to be jealous, but Aziraphale is, when Crowley cites amusing tales of his escapades with the polymath. He always regretted not knowing Da Vinci personally.

The food arrives and Crowley loads various, delicious smelling dishes on the table. 

“I’ll introduce you to the plants after dinner,” he says mysteriously and with obvious excitement.

“I can’t wait, dear,” Aziraphale beams at him benignly. 

The food is simply delicious, and Aziraphale can’t help quiet, appreciating moans as he tastes the different dishes. (It is tapas, which is brilliant as there are so many choices.) 

“Oh, fuck me,” he hears Crowley’s mutter. He opens his eyes (when did he close them?) to catch the demon staring at him with more hunger than Aziraphale dedicates for the food.

“This is utterly delightful, darling boy,” he praises him. The expression on Crowley’s face is truly fascinating, a combination of embarrassed and turned on, both which he tries to mask. Knowing he’s a being bit of a bastard, but unable to resist the teasing, Aziraphale picks up a gigantic olive and slowly sucks it into his mouth, making sure he doesn’t hold back on the appreciating noises _at all_.

He realizes halfway through that he surely looks more ridiculous than sensuous. However, at that point he doesn’t have any other choice but to go through with it. He casts an abashed look at Crowley, just to see him still staring at him, now with a flush at his high cheekbones. Wordlessly, he pushes the plate of sausages towards the angel.

Aziraphale can’t help but laugh. 

“What do you say, shall we open the wine too?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, smut in next chapter only, because *someone* decided to go for a bit of a shopping. As a disclaimer, I've never been inside Harrods, but I did window shop all of Aziraphale's clothing online and I can't believe he spent 4K like that! Liam's bonus would be considerable even without the blessing, I'm sure.  
> Seriously, this chapter was super self indulgent, I hope you had at least half the fun reading that I had while writing it.


	8. Chapter 8

The dinner is torture. Not the Hellish kind, but a new form of it, previously unknown to Crowley. An angelic torture. One that he enjoys being the subject of, although he can’t be sure if he will survive it. 

First of all, Aziraphale arrived dressed differently. He’s dressed for seduction, and isn’t that supposed to be Crowley’s job? What an underhanded move – Crowley can’t help but admire it. (Not to mention appreciate it a whole lot.) But it caught him unprepared.

It led to that spectacular snogging in his kitchen, which almost left Crowley with another novel experience (if snogging an angel against his fridge wasn’t novel enough in itself) - he’s never been so close to coming in his pants. 

Dinner itself… well. There’s something enticing about watching Aziraphale eat. It’s the way he so unabashedly enjoys food, as if every bite is a whole new experience. Crowley is not sure at which point the angel realised he has a bit of a kink here, watching him enjoy himself so. He supposed even if Aziraphale notices, he’ll be discreet enough not to mention, or maybe even embarrassed. He certainly never imagined he’d act on it. But… he was wrong. Crowley has no idea how he manages not to discorporate, watching him lick crème caramel off his spoon, all the while maintaining eye contact with the demon. It’s the most indecent thing he has ever witnessed. (The most indecent thing that affected him, at any rate.)

“This was the most scrumptious, my darling boy,” Aziraphale praises, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin with fussy little taps. (There’s an upgrade here from dear to darling which Crowley noticed, don’t think he didn’t.) The angel is down to his shirt sleeves, no waistcoat or blazer at all, and it is not supposed to be so erotic as Crowley finds it. “Do you want to, ahh, _introduce_ me to your plants now or should we watch the movie?”

“Come, see the plants,” Crowley holds out his hand to him and just doesn’t let go when he leads him to his green room. It’s a special thing, having Aziraphale over at his place. He never has any guests; in fact the only people ever inside were the ones delivering his furniture. He certainly has never shown the greenery, his pride and joy (and his convenient outlet for frustration and anger) to anyone. 

“Oh, they are _absolutely_ beautiful,” Aziraphale praises the plants, and Crowley remembers too late he should have warned him not to do that. 

“Sssh,” he shushes, “Don’t tell them that!”  
  
  


“But they _are.”_ Aziraphale looks at him quizzically, and Satan’s balls, this is embarrassing. 

“It took a while to establish authority over them,” he tries to explain, turning away from the plants so they won’t overhear. “You can’t… you can’t go and say nice things to them. They have to keep respecting me.”

“I’ve read it does good if you talk to them,” Aziraphale offers, as if Crowley doesn’t know that. That’s how the whole shouting-at-them ritual started. 

“Yes, but… I’ll show you how it’s done,” he picks up the alocasia, glaring at it for good measure. It trembles as it should in its pot. “What’s thisss?” he hisses at it, “Thisss leaf is drying up. You know the price for dried up leaves. You had only one task to do - to grow impeccably. Yet you failed. You all know,” he raises his voice, but doesn’t shout, he doesn’t want to scare Aziraphale. (Nor does he want him to think him a lunatic.) “the consequences of not growing well enough!” 

“Oh my,” Aziraphale says and his voice wavers slightly. “That’s truly… yes, that’s truly, really demonic.” Crowley risks a glance at him. Grey-blue eyes twinkle back at him merrily. Not scared then. 

“Nkhhh, yeah. At this point there’s no need for corporal punishment, but you all know what’s coming next if you don’t do better.”

“My dears,” Aziraphale tells his plants seriously, “I think you should all better listen to your… your _master._ No drying bits or… (he gets stuck for a moment, so Crowley mutters _leaf spots_ quickly.) Or leaf spots,” he tuts and holds up a finger as if scolding an unruly child he can’t really be cross with. “Leaf sports are absolutely unthinkable.”

He smiles at Crowley. The demon feels warm all over and hopelessly fond of this extraordinary angel. He fears that if he wanted, he could put a name to all these emotions swirling at him, that there’s an awful, four-letter word (if he sticks to the modern English language) that he could apply here. Why an angel? Why Aziraphale? How does he manage to shake Crowley’s word so thoroughly? Where has he been for 6000 years? All that wasted time Crowley has spent without him.

“You heard him,” he grumbles at the plants and takes his angel by the hand to lead him back to the living room.

“This is comfy,” Aziraphale wiggles on his couch as they settle in for the movie. Crowley’s ambitious plan to catch him up with the 21st century is delayed, but you can’t show Casino Royale to someone who has never seen Goldfinger and doesn’t even know who James Bond is. “Although it could do with a few throw pillows and some blankets, don’t you think?”

“They’d ruin the aesthetic,” he got into the habit of cocooning into a certain abhorrent tartan scarf, but it’s safely put out of sight for this visit.

The film starts, and Sean Connery is suave, witty and handsome, as he always is. (Crowley is partial to all James Bond movies, but Goldfinger was where it all started, and he’ll always be blind to any fault this film might have.) He turns to Aziraphale to tell him how his career at the Secret Service inspired Ian Flemming in creating James Bond, but in the end, he just settles on watching the angel watch his favourite film. (He does know what is happening on the screen without looking, after all.) It fills him with a very special mix of emotions, tenderness, pride and excitement, looking at Aziraphale sitting on his couch and watching James Bond. He gets away with it until -

“Pussy Galore? Really? Why would anyone name…?” Aziraphale looks at him and the air shifts around them, thickening with anticipation. Something strange happens to time and space. The film continues to play in the background, but all Crowley can see are the lights playing on the angel’s face in the darkened room and all he can hear are their deepening breathing.

He leans in and Aziraphale cups his face, fingers tracing over the brand of snake next to his ear. Crowley turns his face - it’s ticklish there and he doesn’t want it to remind the angel what kind of a creature he’s sitting on the couch with - and kisses his palm. Then he kisses his wrist, feels his pulse picking up tempo under his lips. His own unnecessary heartbeat matches it. He shifts until he’s kneeling on the couch, and he can kiss the angel everywhere skin shows, his face, his neck (bow tie free for once), his ears, before finally capturing his lips with his.

Aziraphale makes a desperate little moan, fists his hands in Crowley’s shirt, pulling it mostly free from where it’s tucked in his trousers and tugs the demon towards himself. Crowley goes, straddling Aziraphale’s thighs. He dives in for a kiss again, bites down on the angel’s lower lip rougher than he intends. He apologises with a softer kiss and a lick. He thinks the snake inside him wants to devour this delicious heavenly being. Not that Aziraphale seems to mind. One of his hands is sliding up under Crowley’s tugged-free shirt, fingers caressing the bumps on his spine. His other hand is firm on Crowley’s buttocks, kneading his bony arse softly. 

Crowley’s arousal, which hasn’t really died down the whole evening, returns full force. His cock is painfully hard in the tight confines of his jeans. He grinds down on Aziraphale’s crotch, wanting to confirm he is in a similar state, and is rewarded with a lustful groan. 

He fumbles with the buttons on Aziraphale’s shirt, getting it open just to find a vest underneath. He pushes it up, to touch warm skin with his cool hands finally. _Finally_. Aziraphale’s body is just as human as his is, he notes hazily. Not angel-perfect, but real and exciting. He has curly, blond hair on his chest, peeking out from under the vest at the neckline. Crowley’s wandering fingers confirm he has the same dusting of hair around his nipples and under his navel, a trail leading down into his pants. (Crowley has never been so thrilled to find nipples and a belly button on a body before. They are _just there,_ part of the usual package on a human, but they are quite different, belonging to Aziraphale.) His skin is soft, flesh and muscles not pulled taut over his bones like Crowley’s are, but having a soft padding underneath. Crowley presses his long fingers into his sides with too much force probably, but not able to stop himself, enjoying the way he can grab onto the angel too much. (Aziraphale doesn’t stop him either.)

He leans back a bit, putting some distance between them only when Aziraphale reaches for his fly. The angel looks a bit of a mess - his curls are disarrayed after Crowley ran his fingers through them, his face, neck and chest are flushed, his vest is pushed up till his armpits. There are red fingerprints all over the pale skin of his waist and hip where Crowley gripped him too hard, and he’d feel guilty about them if he wasn’t so turned on by the sight. He thinks me must be equally dishevelled and flushed.

Aziraphale’s hand is on the front of his pants, his palm pressed gently against the denim raised by Crowley’s hard cock. He unhooks the belt and slowly pops the button free and pulls down the zip, all this done one-handed, which is quite impressive, really. 

Aziraphale tugs on his jeans and Crowley wiggles his hips and between the two of them they manage to push it down to the top of his thighs. (Which is as far as it goes without performing more complex gymnastics or a minor miracle.)

His dark grey trunks already have a wet spot at the front. Aziraphale runs his thumb over the head of his cock where it pushes against the material. Crowley trembles, it feels a bit like his whole world is being shaken. He lets himself slump forward again, pushing his forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Angel, please…” he moans, rutting against the fingers caressing his cock through his underpants. Aziraphale takes pity and slides his hand under the elastic band, gripping his erection at last and starts to stroke slowly as much as the awkward position allows. 

“My dearest, I think we’re severely overdressed for this,” Aziraphale whispers, slightly breathless but still perfectly articulated, while a structured sentence is far beyond Crowley’s abilities right now.

“Ngk, yeah, wait,” he mutters and snaps his fingers, getting rid of his jeans and underwear, leaving him in nothing but his socks and a half-unbuttoned shirt. Aziraphale huffs a surprised laugh.

“Well, that’s certainly a solution.”

“Less clothes, right?” Crowley points out, hips now rolling unabashedly, thrusting his prick into Aziraphale’s grip. He wonders if he should offer to do the same for Aziraphale. He isn’t sure of the protocol here - is it rude to miracle somebody else’s clothes away or is it the considerate thing to do? It’s a decision he never had to face before. 

“Can’t argue with that,” Aziraphale chuckles and his voice is rough and sexy. Crowley raises up on his knees and finds his balance, pushing his hands against the backrest of the sofa. He curves his flexible spine backwards and looks down at his angel, flushed and obviously aroused, yet still mostly dressed. He looks at his own cock, as it disappears in the soft, warm tunnel of Aziraphale’s grip with each rolling thrust of his pelvis. It’s the fucking hottest thing he’s ever seen.

“G...Sat... _Someone,_ angel, I’m not going to last,” he pants.

“In that case… just a second, darling,” Aziraphale says mysteriously, before he withdraws his wonderful hand. (Crowley whimpers his protest.) He takes hold of Crowley’s buttocks, kneading softly, until the demon forgets any resentments he might harbour for his neglected prick. He shifts, urging Crowley to get his arms around his neck, then he stands up, picking up the demon quite effortlessly. He yelps in alarm, but Aziraphale has him - he turns them around and lays Crowley gently down the sofa.

“I have a bed,” he says weekly, but he’s already opening his legs widely as Aziraphale kneels between them.

“That’s nice, dear,” comes the distracted answer and Crowley decides the sofa is good, the sofa is in fact _brilliant,_ because when Aziraphale settles, he leans down and sucks his cock into his mouth.

The sound that leaves Crowley’s throat is very close to a sob, much to his embarrassment. Aziraphale raises his head with a concerned crease between his brows.

“Please, for the love of… don’t stop, angel.”

That frown smooths out into a smile.

“I assume this is alright then, dearest?”

“Fuck, you have to ask? Please, angel, suck me off.”

“Now, there’s no need to be vulgar,” he chides, tone prim as if he didn’t just have Crowley’s dick in his mouth. He leans down again and takes Crowley in slower this time, perfect pink lips wrapping around the head of his cock, then sliding down, smooth and obviously well practiced.

Crowley slaps his hand in front of his mouth, trying to prevent any further mortifying sounds from escaping. His left foot lands on the ground as he opens his legs wide, trying to find leverage. Aziraphale’s hands caress his inner thighs, his touch soft but firm. 

He’s doing this absolutely wonderful thing with his lips, wrapping them around Crowley’s cock as he slides them down till the root and then he does that other brilliant thing with his tongue, pushing it resolutely against the underside and licking his shaft all the way when he bobs his head up. Then he flicks the tip of his tongue against the slit. Again and again and how Crowley is supposed to bear it, how can he stay quiet and stop himself from thrusting into his lewd yet _heavenly_ mouth?

(He can’t stop himself at all.)

A warm hand slide further up on his thigh, slipping to where legs morph into buttocks, then slides under to cup Crowley’s arse. Aziraphale pauses for a moment, lifting his head off from Crowley’s cock with a wet pop, when he dips his fingers in between his cheeks. 

“Is this alright, my dear?”

“Yeah, fuck, yeah,” Crowley pants. Aziraphale can hardly suggest anything at this point he wouldn't happily agree to, especially if he gets those lips around his dick again.

His brilliant angel does just that, takes him in his mouth again while he pushes his fingers against Crowley’s opening. It’s just the press of dry fingers, not breaching the ring of muscle, but Crowley is undone. His right leg ends up over Aziraphale’s shoulder somehow and he thrusts up shallowly, as much as he can in this position. 

“Angel, angel, angel,” he chants as a warning. Aziraphale just hums around him and redoubles his effort, working him with clear, goal-focused intent. Crowley comes with a sound between a shout and a whimper, whole body shaking. Aziraphale keeps sucking him, gentler now, until he has nothing left to give. 

His leg slides off from his shoulder when the angel pulls back. There’s an indefinite amount of time when he just lies boneless on his couch, half his body hanging off from it, his whole body feeling like one gigantic, overcooked noodle. 

“Bloody hell, angel,” he manages at long last. “This was… wow. I mean, _wow_.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, darling,” he says with a very smug smile. Crowley half expects him to magic a napkin from nowhere and dab the corners of his mouth. 

He makes his noodle-body to move by sheer force of will and crawls up on all four to Aziraphale. He might feel ridiculous, still in his shirt but bare legged and arsed, if not for the obvious hunger in the angel’s eyes as he tracks his movements. He lurches himself up on his knees to kiss him. He twines his fingers through white-blond curls and pushes his tongue in the angel’s mouth, tasing his own cum. At one point he has to process this - not only an angel sucked him off, but it was the best blow job he had in… well, probably ever. But processing can wait. 

He takes Aziraphale face between his hands and licks the corners of his mouth clean, to ensure no sticky patches remain. He runs his hand up on one lush thigh in these new, form-fitting trousers and palms the bulge tenting it. 

“Angel,” he whispers, voice still hoarse, “can I do the same for you?”

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale breaths, thrusting up against Crowley’s hand. “I’d love you to.” There’s hardly anything Crowley wouldn’t do for him if he asks so nicely (and even if he doesn’t.) He unzips his pants, caressing him through his underwear. He leans in to mouth his cock through the cotton material and is rewarded with an excited twitch of flesh. He’s ready to suck him off, pulling him free through the slit in his briefs, but Aziraphale stops him.

“Let me take off my trousers, dearest,” he says breathlessly. “Let’s not spoil Mr Lauren’s work straight away.”

“Who is…” Crowley starts to ask but is distracted when Aziraphale stands up to take off his trousers and underpants. God...Satan… _Somebody,_ he wants to bury his face between those creamy white thighs and stay there forever. 

Unaware of his weird thoughts, Aziraphale folds his garments neatly and, after some brief hesitation, takes his shirt off too. The vest, sadly, remains in place, but Crowley can’t complain, with him still wearing his own shirt. There’s something to be said about the way the angel’s hard cock is revealed under the hem, curving up towards his rounded belly.

“Mr Lauren? Oh, he’s apparently the one who made these trousers for me,” Aziraphale says and through the red haze of lust it takes Crowley long moments to realize he’s answering his aborted question. And what a silly thing to say, he wants to kiss him for it. Lucky, that there’s nothing stopping him from doing so. 

He slithers off the couch to wrap himself around Aziraphale’s almost-naked form. The kiss is heated and urgent - Aziraphale’s erection presses against his hip, reminding him that the angel hasn’t found his satisfaction yet.

Crowley turns them around and pushes him down on the cushions. He drops to his knees between his legs, shuffling about, trying to find a more comfortable position. 

“Wait, my dear,” Aziraphale mutters and Crowley is kneeling on a large, soft pillow. Tartan, he confirms, glancing down, although the colour scheme is red, black and white. He smiles up at the angel and places a soft thank you kiss on his dick. “Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breaths when he finally wraps his lips around the head. He wants to tell him how he wove elaborate fantasies about doing just this. It’s probably the best his mouth is occupied, and he can’t spill anything dangerously mushy.

He bows his neck, lips sliding down on Aziraphale’s shaft, the head pushing against Crowley’s cheek. When he moves back up, he pushes his tongue against the slit, curling it around hard, hot flesh, using his tongue’s flexibility to his advantage. There’s a sharp gasp coming from above him, and when he glances up, Aziraphale has his eyes closed shut tightly, biting his lower lip to keep silent. His hands are balled into fists, pushing against his thighs. Crowley takes them and places them on the back of his head.

“I don’t mind if you’re a bit rough,” he croaks, lifting his head momentarily. He doesn’t wait for an answer before diving back down. This time he takes Aziraphale all the way in. (Having an agile tongue is only one of the perks of being a snake.)

The angel gasps, fingers weaving into Crowley’s hair, not pulling, just holding on as the demon does his best to please him. Skills he picked up over millennia are mostly forgotten in favour of enthusiasm, but Aziraphale seems to be far from complaining. Crowley swallows around the cock in his mouth, feeling it all the way down his throat. He doesn’t choke, (it’s just not something he does, it never occurred to him that humans could have problems with… swallowing things whole), he just needs a moment to remind himself he doesn’t really need to breathe. (And that he can still breath through his nose if he wants to.)

Aziraphale gives him time - Crowley has the feeling he’d sit there as long as he needs, waiting patiently. But Crowley has no intention of making him do so. In fact, he wants nothing more than for his angel to find his release. For Crowley to be the case of it.

He hums softly and starts to work in earnest. Aziraphale’s hands in his hair urges him on. He’s not pulling nor does he push Crowley’s head to go deeper. His fingers are just there, with the gentlest pressure, trembling slightly when Crowley does something wicked with his tongue. He doesn’t thrust up, but his thighs tremble with the effort of keeping still. 

Crowley half-wants him to lose control, while his other half loves his angel for being gentle and considerate. 

There, that word again, the thing he, as a demon, should absolutely not feel. He chases the thought away, concentrating on just the physical, the wet, indecent sounds his mouth makes around Aziraphale’s cock, the little moans that escape the angel’s lips and the muffled ones himself is making. He speeds up, enjoying the long slide up of lips until only the head of Aziraphale’s cock remains in his mouth, the gasp swirling his tongue provokes. The way down, being urged by the tiniest thrust of hips from Aziraphale, his cock hitting the back of his throat. Fuck, but Crowley is hard again, all knowledge about 40-ish human male refractory periods forgotten. (And does it matter when he’s with Aziraphale?) He’s hard and leaking, but he can’t deal with that at the moment. 

“Crowley, darling, I’m almost there,” Aziraphale whispers, fingers tightening in his hair in warning. Crowley looks up at him, takes him in, face flushed, pupils blown wide, lips parted and bright pink where he kept biting them. _Jesus, fuck, yes, do it,_ he thinks, and Aziraphale, as if he heard him, comes. 

Crowley brings his hand up, stroking him through it, then draws his head back, opening his mouth to let strings of angelic ejaculate hit his tongue, his chin, the side of his cheeks. He keeps his eyes locked on Aziraphale and he’s never seen him so otherworldly beautiful, almost glowing. There’s a strange thought. He has angelic cum in his mouth, on his face, and he’d have thought it would burn like holy water, but it does not. It doesn’t burn at all. 

He gulps, as much to swallow Aziraphale’s essence as to make the strange lump of emotion in his throat disappear. He pushes his messy face against Aziraphale’s thigh, takes himself in hand and jerks his own cock frantically until he comes for the second time that night. Aziraphale’s fingers are still in his hair, caressing, petting as he coos silly endearments over the background noise of Crowley’s hand moving on his slick cock, praising him, telling him _that’s it, my darling, you’re doing great_ when he comes. 

Crowley can’t say how long they stay like that, him on his knees, sprawled across Aziraphale’s lap, the angel laid back on the couch, his proper posture forgotten for once. 

“Come up here,” he says after a while and Crowley goes. He knows he must look the right mess, naked from the waist down, the drying patch of semen obvious on his dark shirt, face sticky, hair mussed. He doesn’t have the energy to go to the bathroom and fix himself. 

He crawls up to the seat next to Aziraphale and tucks against his side. There’s the briefest touch of angelic miracle, leaving them dry and clean, and another one that conjures a blanket that Aziraphale arranges around them both. It has a matching tartan pattern with the pillow he was kneeling on earlier. On the screen James Bond is struggling against the sordid but rather inefficient and time-consuming execution method the evil Goldfinger came up with. The angel and the demon don’t them pay them any mind.

Crowley wants to make a joking comment on Aziraphale making himself at home and reorganizing his interior, but when he opens his mouth only a huge yawn comes.

He lays his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. It’s broad and comfortable. There’s a reassuring solidity to his frame, as if he could stand in a raging storm and not be shaken at all. He’s also really warm and his skin is really soft. When Crowley discreetly sniffs his neck, he feels their scents mixing. (He is actually not discreet at all, but Aziraphale is too polite to comment.) There’s the smell of smoke that faintly but permanently follows him, and the fresh ozone scent of the angel. It mixes with their aftershave, sweat and the smell of sex. It should be an overwhelming whiff, but somehow it is perfect.

He doesn’t know when he drifts off to sleep, just that he did at one point as he wakes to Aziraphale caressing his face lightly.

“Darling, I’m sorry to wake you,” he says softly. “It’s the morning, time for me to go back home.”

Crowley protests, more than ready to spend the whole Sunday dozing on the couch, maybe waking up to serve his angel some brunch and offer another round of sex. Sadly for him, Aziraphale made up his mind, and doesn’t let himself be tempted with earthly pleasures. (Crowley is baffled, he considers his temptation skills excellent, and Aziraphale hasn’t shown much resistance to them so far.) He watches the angel as he gets dressed and tries not to sulk too obviously.

“Lunch then, Tuesday as usual?” he capitulates at last. 

“That will be lovey,” Aziraphale kisses him, and Crowley forgets his sulk. He miracles himself a new pair of trousers so he can see Aziraphale to the door. (Not the usual tight jeans, just a jogger. He can’t bear even the idea of being uncomfortable right now.) 

He spends the morning daydreaming and dozing, happy and sated. Maybe it’s safe to make some tentative plans with the angel. For future dates, things they could do together. Visit the museums, go to the theatre - Crowley must get new tickets for Kinky Boots, it’s a shame they missed it last time. 

They get on really well with the angel, don’t they? And the sex… the sex turned out to be more mind-blowingly brilliant than Crowley ever imagined. (And when Crowley imagined it, it was already great.) He loves, (no, get away from that word) he _really appreciates_ pretty much everything about Aziraphale, from the way his eyes change from grey to blue, to his ridiculous curls, his handsome face, his gorgeous body he hides under those stuffy old clothes. (But he looked good enough to eat in these unexpectedly new ones.) He’s… he’s kind, but also a bit of a bastard, with his sharp wit and well-formed opinion on everything. He’s just gone for a few hours and Crowley is already missing him hopelessly.

He turns on the telly, browsing through channels mindlessly. He barely manages not to squeal and drop the controller when on BBC 3 Hastur looks back at him

“Crowley, you absolute fucker,” the Duke of Hell says with obvious glee, “you’re in trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legolas, what do your elf eyes see? Is that plot over in the next chapter or is it just shit hitting the fan?
> 
> Also, happy 90th Birthday to Sir Sean Connery! No matter the age, you'll always be Crowley's favorite Bond <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early update! This is to celebrate me finishing writing this story, even if the last two chapters still needs heavy editing and some rewriting.   
> There's some angst in this part and that spoiler-y thing in the tags. Nothing too horrible I believe.

Aziraphale walks back to his bookshop in an exceptionally good mood. The sun is doing its best to peek through the early morning fog, to shine on the still-silent city. There’s a spring to the angel’s steps and where he goes the birds start to sing. The flowers of Grosvenor Square decide it’s time to start to bloom when he walks by. People wake in their homes, feeling pleased and happy with their lives when he passes under their windows. He hums a silly little tune and it takes him a while to realise it’s the theme song of the film they started to watch last night. He lost track of it after _Pussy Galore_ (what a name, really) entered the scene. He’ll have to ask Crowley to show him the rest. Not because he’s overly interested in the story, more because it is important for Crowley. 

His sunny disposition lasts the glorious twenty minutes it takes him to get home. He reaches his shop and takes out his key of rings, (he could just wave his hand to let himself in, but a proper door deserves proper keys, doesn’t it?) when he feels the presence behind himself.

He manages to turn around slowly instead of spinning on his heels as he wants to do, and yes, there he is, in his impeccable, grey suit, lavender tie and cashmere scarf - Aziraphale’s boss.

“Ah, Gabriel, hello,” a thousand thoughts race through his mind. How does he look like, in his new but by now very rumpled clothing, walking back home so early? How messy is his hair? Does he smell of sex? He’s fairly sure Gabriel has vague ideas at best about what sex is. He probably wouldn’t imagine Aziraphale engaging in it. Certainly not with a demon. (He buries that thought quickly into the deepest part of his mind, afraid it will leave guilt written all over his face.) Aziraphale has nothing to fear, surely this visit is nothing but an unfortunate coincidence. (Only, there are no coincidences in his line of work, not really.) “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit on this lovely Sunday morning?”

“Up and about bright and early, Aziraphale, I’m happy to see that,” Gabriel flashes his wide, plastic smile at him. “No rest when it’s about to save the eternal souls of these mortals!”

“Oh, ah, I … yes, that’s right. Best time of the day to save some is early Sunday morning. They are still resting as She did on the seventh day, and whoosh, good can go into their souls and chase out the evil from there,” he’s rambling. He tries to cut himself short. “Why don’t you come in?” he opens the door at last and ushers Gabriel inside. “A cup of tea or…?”

“I don’t sully the temple of my celestial body with gross matter,” Gabriel states with self-satisfaction. “I never understood why you consume something like that. And tea… isn’t that just leaves soaked in water?”

“With milk and sugar,” Aziraphale admits with a sigh. “Everyone drinks tea in this country, I’m doing my best to blend in.”

“With a soggy leafy beverage with milk and...sugar,” Gabriel takes an unnecessary pause before _sugar_ , as if it is something naughty he shouldn’t even say out loud. He casts a pointed look at his soft midriff and Aziraphale longs for a milky and overly sweet tea more than ever. “Wasn’t sugar one of theirs?” the archangel asks in a stage whisper, pointing downstairs.

“I’m sure you didn’t come to talk about sweeteners,” Aziraphale says with a forced smile. “And I don’t want to steal your precious time.”

“That’s right,” Gabriel pats him on the shoulder and it’s just forceful enough to be impossible to classify as friendly. “I came to deliver some news. I know you have been searching for Agent Kemuel’s assassin…?” he looks quizzically at Aziraphale who has to think for a moment before he remembers what he’s even talking about. With this affair starting up with Crowley, he all but forgot the attack on his college. 

“I’m… yes. That’s right. Has been looking _everywhere,_ but the traces are all cold. Maybe that demon is no longer in town. It can also be a wee difficult to recognise him with no clear picture of this… this foul demon who committed such an evil act.”

“Right. Right,” Gabriel mutters. “We have received feedback from other field agents as well that _maybe_ the facial composite wasn’t the _most_ detailed. I would think a demon is a demon, one is impossible to miss, but not everyone can have the same keen sense I possess! I’m in the position I am for a reason. We try to help our agents where they lack the talent or the initiative, you know. It’s teamwork. You know what I always say?”

“Teamwork makes the dream work?” Aziraphale supplies with resignation.

“That’s right,” Gabriel blooms a laugh. “Teamwork makes the dream work! That’s the spirit, sunshine! This is why I’m here to help you and share the news. Kemuel went through the files we have of the Opposition's agents and he could identify the aggressor,” he pulls a manila envelope out from thin air, and hands it over.

Aziraphale opens it without expecting anything at all. Maybe another unrecognisable caricature. There’s a black-and-white photo inside, which he pulls out carefully. Then he just stares at it. There must be some misunderstanding, he thinks. Surely, there must be…

“Well?” Gabriel asks impatiently, reminding Aziraphale of his presence. 

“I’ve never seen this person before,” Aziraphale hears himself say. His voice seems to come from afar.

“Hmm,” Gabriel doesn’t try to disguise his disappointment. “Well, be careful. Our intelligence suggests he’s a high ranking-demon who specialises in disguising himself as human in order to deceive angels. Then _bamm!”_ the archangel slams his fist down into his other palm, making Aziraphale, who has been just standing there, dazed and mentally not really present, jump in surprise. “Bamm,” Gabriel repeats, “he uses his devious methods to eliminate our innocent field agents. Even someone so highly-skilled as Kemuel has fallen into his trap. We suspect he has been just one of his numerous victims over the years. You understand why someone like _you_ have to be extra careful, don’t you, Aziraphale?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees quietly.

“I’ll leave the photo with you just in case you come across him. I trust you have the gun we issued with you?”

“The what? Oh, the… yes, sure I have it. Have it on me all the time, that gun,” Aziraphale lies on autopilot. “Wouldn’t leave the house without it.”

“Well then,” Gabriel clasps his hands together. “My work here is done, as they say. You keep up the good work, sunshine, just, you know… less sugar, more demon-slaying.” He laughs at his own joke and makes an odd gesture imitating boxing or maybe demon-slaying. Aziraphale, who couldn’t care less what Gabriel is trying to convey, forces his facial expression into something he hopes to resemble a smile. 

When Gabriel is finally gone, he wanders into his backroom and collapses on the sofa. He puts the envelope on the low table in front of him. He just stares at it for a long time, as if wishing very-very hard to find a different photo in it this time would change its contents. (Which would work with a human-made photo but won’t with a Heavenly one.) Hands shaking slightly, he reaches for it and pulls the picture out again.

It must have been taken a couple of decades ago, based on the unfortunate hairstyle and horrendous moustache Crowley is wearing. The capture is a bit blurry, showing the demon as he pushes through the crowd of a city, probably London. He’s wearing different clothes, square shaped glasses, the aforementioned appalling facial hair, and what, if he was familiar with the expression, Aziraphale could call a mullet. Yet he is still unmistakably the same demon Aziraphale had engaged in oral sex with just a couple of hours ago. 

On the back of the photo someone wrote with golden ink: _Unnamed demon, suspected mastermind behind the M25 Motorway, 5978_ _After Creation._

“Bugger,” Aziraphale swears quietly. Then louder, “Bloody, buggering _fuck.”_

He is in trouble. He accepts this fact in a detached sort of way. He has been deceived and misled and then, in his panic, he lied to Gabriel’s face. There was hardly any excuse for what he has been doing with Crowley, being fully aware he is a demon. And now it blew up in his face. He could fool himself that Crowley was different from other demons, that he was not crossing some unforgivable line with… with _fraternising,_ but that illusion lasted only for this long. 

Gabriel has the track record for delivering very shocking news. (It’s horrifying to imagine he visited Mary, wearing the same insensitive smile, telling her “Guess what, sunhine”) Not that Aziraphale can blame him, no. No, he can only blame himself. And maybe Crowley. 

But even that is unfair. Crowley has been just doing what a demon does. Lying, causing chaos, he ravaging. Aziraphale is at fault for believing he is different, that he isn’t like his kind. It was his own naivete, or stupidity, of not noticing he is a ruthless angel-slayer. That he’s been out there, hunting for Aziraphale. That he is planning … the Almighty knows what he has been planning all along.

There’s a part of him that doesn’t want to accept this. A part that says he should ask Crowley. Ask Crowley and believe him when he denies the charges. Maybe he’d burst out laughing, unbelieving of what he’s being accused of, an if he does, Aziraphale could laugh with him. He’d let Crowley hug him, kiss him, reassure him he would never be able to cause Aziraphale any harm. That he might be a demon, but he never hurt a single feather of any angel and would never do. 

This part of him, Aziraphale knows, is lonely, silly, and hopelessly romantic. He absolutely can’t listen to it.

He’s restless with guilt, shame and sadness. They have that lunch-date with Crowley on Tuesday, and as the demon doesn’t know that he learned about his crimes, he is bound to show up. Aziraphale loses count how many times he walks to his phone on Monday, picks up the receiver, just to hang it up without dialling the memorised number. What would he say? That he never wants to see that demonic, beautiful face again?

He has a duty here, to make sure an actively hostile agent of the Opposition gets out of the picture, temporarily at the very least. That is the minimum he can do at this stage. That is what he tells himself, even if the truth might be that he just can’t bear the thought of not meeting Crowley one last time. 

He opens the drawer of his bureau on Tuesday morning. With shaking hands, he takes the gun out and loads it with the bullets. ( _Fortified with heavenly gold and blessed by the Archangel Gabriel,_ it reads on the letter.) What would they even do to Crowley? Discorporate him? Something worse? How on earth is he supposed to shoot down a creature who he became so fond of? That’s the terribleness of the situation - despite learning about Crowley’s true nature, Aziraphale’s affections are still there, clinging to hope against reason. 

He hides the gun inside his blazer, using a small miracle to make the suspicious lump invisible. He can almost pretend it isn’t there, can almost forget its presence. 

Crowley arrives shortly before noon, as usual. He saunters in, tight trousers, fancy shoes, short cut leather jacket, long legs, sharp hips, dark glasses on his handsome face, copper hair perfectly styled and Aziraphale wants to _scream_ at him, to demand an explanation for...for everything. 

“Crowley,” he greets him with a cold nod of the head instead. 

“Hi, angel,” Crowley doesn’t seem to pick up on the less-then-warm welcome. He seems nervous and twitchy - he’s often that, but usually he calms down around Aziraphale. Today he keeps looking over his shoulder as if he expects someone to follow after him to the shop. Despite his better judgement, Aziraphale softens. (He is soft.)

“Is everything alright, my boy?”

“Ugh, yeah. No, not really. Look, can we talk before lunch?”

“I rather think we should, yes. I’ll close up.”

He gets Crowley to sit down on the couch in his backroom and resists the urge to offer him tea. (Aziraphale firmly believes tea makes every difficult conversation a little bit easier, but he can’t aim for easy this time, no matter how much he wants to.) The demon slumps on the sofa, long legs sprawled in front of him. After half a minute he shifts into a new position. Then again. And again.

“Right,” Aziraphale himself couldn’t sit more ramrod straight in his armchair. He’s perched at the edge of the seat, not leaning back against the backrest. His own posture grows more and more rigid as he watches Crowley’s nervous fidgeting. “You wanted to talk…”

“Ngk. Yes. Look, angel. Something came up and I must leave town. Pretty urgently. Like, I should have left already. It’s a… work related thing.”

“You are _leaving?”_ he wouldn’t have thought it possible to feel _more_ betrayed than he already is, but he does. After he spent the last two days agonising over how he must get rid of this demon, he just announces he is _leaving?_ “Where are you going? For how long? And why now, after…” Logically, he should be relieved. He doesn’t have to make any kind of decision here. But, quite illogically, he’s feeling sad and hurt. Did Crowley achieve some infernal goal when he had sex with him? Is that why it suddenly became the time for him to move on? (Has that been all a lie, too? The attraction, the courtship, the smouldering glances?)

“I… look, I know this is sudden, but I got into a spot of trouble in London. I know the timing is bad. Timing is horrible. But I was thinking… you could come with me? Y’know, think of it as a vacation? Hmm?”

“Go with you?” Aziraphale is totally confused now. Hurt and betrayal tries to retreat to make room for this warm, elevated feeling blossoming out in his chest. He ruthlessly tampers it down. It shall not do. “Go with you _where?”_

“Italy, I was thinking,” Crowley leans forward and his expression is hopeful. “Let’s go to Rome, or Florence or let’s not stop until we’re down in Sicily. But if you’d rather…”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale holds up his hand. “You are being ridiculous. I’m not going with you to Italy!”

“Why not? You don’t like the place? We can go somewhere else,” Crowley looks so crestfallen, it’s very hard for Aziraphale not to waver. Such a crazy offer, to run away together. When the important question here is, the crucial bit that Aziraphale should not forget is...

“Have you killed an angel on the 9th March?” he blurts out. He feels a bit lighter, asking it. The ball is with Crowley now. He holds his breath. He wants Crowley to say _what are you talking about, angel_ or _of course I haven’t, where have you got the idea from, angel._ He wants him to deny it, and if he does, he knows he will believe him.

Crowley gapes at him like a fish out of water.

“Of all agents Heaven could have sent to hunt me down,” he says at last, in a weak voice that’s barely recognisable as his, “why does it have to be you?”

It’s probably a dangerous thing to do under the circumstances, but Aziraphale closes his eyes for a minute. When he opens them, Crowley is still sitting on the couch. 

“You should go,” his own voice seems to come from afar, as if it is someone else speaking.

“That’s it?” Crowley snaps, “You just tell me to go? Going to kick me out like I’m a stray dog that followed you home? What the _Hell,_ angel?” 

This brings back Aziraphale from his adrift state of mind and ruffles his feathers. (Quite literally.) What right _Crowley_ has to be angry? How does he dare to demand anything from him? 

“I rather think that’s for the best,” he responds stiffly. He feels very much focused suddenly, his anger pinning him to the present. 

“Won’t you even ask what happened? You… you got your orders or something, and you’re not even curious to hear my side?”

“I have a clear enough picture or what happened, thank you. You hunted poor Kemuel down and discorporated him in an underhanded manner.”

“Right. Right,” Crowley stands up, his face a mask of hurt and outrage, his shoulders tense. He nods his head tersely, the corners of his mouth turned down in a strange kind of snarl. Aziraphale gets on his feet as well. “I’m just a demon, that must have happened. Why even ask.”

“I don’t see what further we could talk about,” his heart is beating fast. Not in fear, more with the adrenaline that one starts to stock up for an impending fight.

“Us!” Crowley explodes, “We could talk about _us!”_ Two long strides and he’s right in Aziraphale’s face, leaning into his personal space. The angel stands his ground. He might be a naive fool, but he won’t be intimidated by some skinny demon. “I thought we had a connection! That we had our own ssside. I thought _we_ mattered.”

“Well, you thought it wrong,” Aziraphale wills his features into the steely determination he does not feel. “You are a demon who kills angels. And I’m… I am an angel. How could we be on anything but opposing sides?”

Crowley spins around and Aziraphale thinks he’s going to walk out, that’s it, he’s never going to see him again, but he turns back just after a step. 

“You… you and your ssself-righteous lot,” he hisses in agitation. “You rather throw this away than to consider _you_ might be wrong. Rather just assume you know everything just so you don’t have to take the word of some foul demon!”

“ _I_ am _not_ wrong,” Aziraphale pulls himself to his full height, a crack of Heavenly power gathering around him unconsciously. Crowley’s head jerks to the side, staring above his shoulder where he probably can sense, (even if he can’t see) his wings. “Do you deny shooting Kemuel? No, you don’t. If you were capable of doing that, why shouldn’t I assume you’re capable of other vile deeds? And Crowley,” he adds on the coldest tone he can muster, “You seem to forget that I _am_ an angel. It is not in my nature to be _wrong._ I will stick with my side just as you’ll stick with yours.”

“Oh, that doesn’t get more holier-than-thou, does it?” Crowley cackles a mocking laugh. “Aziraphale, guardian angel of mouldy books, ugly bow ties and overpriced sushi-bars, who simply can _never_ be wrong!”

“Don’t you dare to talk to me like that, you foul snake!” Aziraphale closes the space between them, balling his hands to fists. He’s dimly aware of the bright glow lighting up around him, the manifestation of his wrath engulfing him. It wouldn’t take much to hurt Crowley right now - likely his touch only would burn a demonic being. The thought horrifies him. No matter what he committed, Aziraphale doesn’t want to harm Crowley.

“Oh, am I a foul sssnake now?” quite foolishly, Crowley grabs the lapel of his blazer, leaning in so close their noses almost touch. “Ssstrange how you didn’t find me _foul_ at all on Sunday.” Aziraphale scrambles backwards, not because of the words hurdled at him, but scared that he’ll cause harm to this daft creature while he’s struggling to get his power under control. 

Crowley doesn’t let go. Aziraphale stumbles as he loses his balance and they fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs, none of them miracling the impact any less painful and embarrassing. The air leaves his lungs as his back hits the ground, the weight of Crowley pinning him down. (Even if he is far from being heavy.)

The next instant Crowley is kissing him. He is kissing him even as he hisses in pain into his mouth, because Aziraphale mostly managed to tune his ethereal glow down, but not completely, and it must be burning him. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t stop at all. He bites his lips and pushes his tongue inside, and Aziraphale lets him, welcomes him in and kisses back, bites back, hands all over Crowley’s sinewy back, trying to get under his clothes. 

Crowley gasps and moans, thrusting his hips against Aziraphale’s abdomen. He’s hard, both of them are, and it’s a terrible thing, everything considered. Because Aziraphale is nothing if not self-indulgent and because it gives him an excuse not to think about the whole situation just for a little while, he wedges his hand between their bodies and seeks out Crowley’s fly. He unzips his trousers, wrapping his hand around his cock through his undergarments, before reaching under the elastic band of his underwear.

Crowley’s whole body shakes, but he follows Aziraphale’s lead, and frees his cock too. It’s fast and messy from there, no finesse, no gentle caresses building up to something more intense. It’s nothing like any sexual act Aziraphale has engaged in before, it’s nothing but a fulfilment of some primal need, nothing but stealing a few minutes of time before reality comes crashing back. They don’t talk, it’s only their panting breaths filling the silence. They remain fully dressed with nothing but the necessary parts bared. Aziraphale can scarcely stand the sheer frenzy showing on Crowley’s face. For once he’s glad the demon still has his glasses on, the sight of his eyes would be way too much right now. Crowley is gritting his teeth, looking desperate as he fucks Aziraphale’s grip. His expression is absolutely too much, an assault on his treacherous heart, so the angel closes his eyes, concentrating on nothing but the perfect pressure of long, cool fingers around his cock. 

It’s over oh so very quickly. Crowley all but hunches over his hand, thrusting his hips erratically. His cock is slick with his excitement, making obscene, squelching sounds as it slides in and out of Aziraphale’s grip. He comes, spilling against his palm, and that’s all it takes for Aziraphale to topple over the edge too. He doesn’t open his eyes, he keeps them closed as Crowley pulls back, as he snaps his fingers and makes the mess disappear from their clothes and bodies. He tucks himself back into his trousers and sits up. 

He finally looks at Crowley and tries to pretend he didn’t just have sex with him again, on the floor of his bookshop of all places. It’s a difficult thing to pull off - his back aches from being pushed against the hardwood floor, especially on his left side, where the gun, still hidden under his coat, has been doing its best to dig a hole through his corporation. He feels sated, but not in the well-known, comfortable, lazily and pleasurable way. This time his orgasms left him feeling empty as if he is nothing but the hollow shell of his usual self. 

He thinks about the photo in the manila envelope. He thinks about Crowley pulling a gun out and shooting him as he shot Kemuel. He thinks about Gabriel and the other archangels and the punishment he will receive if they ever learn of his transgressions. He thinks about Falling from Her grace, the mocking laughter or angels and demons alike following him for an eternity. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, and his voice is desperate as he reaches out to him. The angel draws his hands away and locks his fingers together in front of his chest.

“Why are you still here, demon?” he asks coldly. “I told you to go.”

Crowley's mouth pulls back into a ferocious grimace. He looks about to transform into something feral, a snake, a dragon. He looks about to cry.

“That’s how it is, _angel?_ Fine, I’ll get out of your hair now. It’s not as if I need you.”

“And the feeling is mutual,” Aziraphale spits. He still feels angry, but this anger is only a fragile husk, barely covering the hurt and bleakness underneath.

With a snarl, Crowley spins around and walks out. He doesn’t turn back, he doesn’t even look over his shoulder this time. Aziraphale counts his steps as he crosses the floor of the shop. The bell above the door jingles, unfittingly but unwaveringly merry, then the entrance door slams shut. 

Aziraphale tries to hold onto his anger, he really tries. He has every reason to be furious, he was absolutely right to send the demon away. That was the only thing he could do, seeing how he is too weak to smite him. Crowley was a mistake, a trap he has fallen into because he was lonely, and he was easily tempted with the promise of companionship. It’s better to be alone than to be with a scheming, murdering demon. And Crowley is that, isn’t he? Isn’t he?

His face is wet. Confused, he pushes the heel of his hand against his face. He is crying. Judging by how wet his face is, he must have been crying for a while. He orders his corporation to stop doing it, but it doesn’t obey. He gets on shaky feet, tears still falling steadily. He isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting on the floor. He looks around, feeling lost, as if he isn’t in the long-familiar backroom of his bookshop.

Did he make a horrible mistake? The thought surfaces and doesn’t leave, replacing the painful emptiness in him with a dawning realization that’s equally agonising. Did he just make the worst decision in his whole existence? 

Crowley, he… Aziraphale didn’t even listen to him, didn’t give him the chance to explain himself. He’s been so caught up in his fears and insecurities ever since Gabriel visited, he didn’t consider he could have any other option but to push the demon away. (Discorporating or destroying Crowley were out of the question all the time, weren’t they?)

So, he pushed him away because he is a demon - but he already knew that. Does he believe him to be truly evil, nothing but a heartless murderer? If he looks into himself, does he feel he made the right decision?

The answers to these questions are surprisingly straightforward. No, no, he doesn’t. Aziraphale is good at not being honest with himself, but this time he forces himself to inspect his own emotions carefully. Under the brief time he spent with Crowley he has been more carefree and happier than he was ever before. He chased away that loneliness the angel has considered an integrated part of him. He is funny, and charming, and ridiculous on occasions. He is not an evil being at all. He is the companion Aziraphale could never find amongst his own kin.

Some of the terrible weight lifts from Aziraphale’s shoulders. He has rather made a mess of things, but maybe the situation is not hopelessly beyond remedy. He will call Crowley and…

He spots a little black device on the ground. Even before he picks it up, he knows what it is. Crowley’s “smart” telephone. It must have fallen from his pocket when they were, ahh, busy on the floor. 

“If you are really so clever,” he holds it away from himself, not trusting it the slightest, “you can tell me where your master is,” the gadget remains silent. “Of course not,” he sighs. “Would have been too much to assume you will cooperate.”

That depressed feeling tries to come back, but he shakes it off. He can’t afford to mope if he wants to hold any chance of repairing things with Crowley. The demon was talking about leaving for Italy - something must have happened. Work, he said, but it seemed sudden. He was in distress too, wasn’t he, even before Aziraphale made the whole situation truly horrible. 

But first things first. Aziraphale needs to find him and then he can apologise. He’ll go and check his apartment and if he’s not there, he’ll go out to the airport and inquire when flights are leaving for Rome. Or Florence. Or Sicily. 

(The last time Aziraphale was on an airplane, it took off from Croydon. He’s not a fan of this artificial flying, for the obvious reasons. He isn’t aware of the different airports of London or the number of flights leaving for Italy from all of them on a daily basis. Nor did he hear that Croydon has long ceased operation. For the relative peace of his mind at the time being, it’s better this way.)

“Right, Aziraphale, you have no time to lose,” he tells himself. Refusing to believe he can’t make this right, he leaves his shop to search for the demon, _his_ demon, who so thoroughly stole his heart. 


	10. Chapter 10

Crowley stares into his unbearably empty glass. They have filled it up for him the first handful of times, but he is now being ignored. He might be considered drunk by human standards, but he is not by his own ones. He still remembers everything with painful clarity and that just won’t do. He lifts his head with some difficulty and signals for another round of scotch. He’s not sure how many glasses that will make. Too many, if he considers the spinning of the pub around him but still not enough to fill up the hole inside his chest.

The server puts the new glass down in front of him. He starts to ask something, maybe if he wants something to eat too, considering it’s barely past lunch-time and he has only consumed copious amount of alcohol since he sat down in the booth, maybe if he really wants this new round of booze, maybe even if he’s alright. But when he looks at Crowley, he just makes a little jump of unpleasant surprise and hurries away, because Crowley’s shades slid down on his nose, showing too much of his demonic eyes. That’s for the better. He couldn’t stand being asked if he’s alright. 

“Boo,” he mutters drunkenly after the human, chuckling to himself without any real mirth. He doesn’t bother with straightening his glasses. “To demons and angels,” he raises his scotch and salutes the thin air in front of him, “to self-righteous, beautiful angels.”

How could his life take such a Hellish turn, when two days ago he was the happiest demon in existence? Bloody Hastur and his warning, cutting his joy so short lived.

Of course, Hastur didn’t come to _warn_ him. That would assume he possessed some modicum of empathy, Hell forbid, _caring_ for Crowley’s wellbeing. He scared Crowley first, making him think he oversaw him and Aziraphale earlier. Crowley doesn’t think the Duke of Hell any smarter than him, so it’s unlikely that he would have recognised the angel for what he is, but shit, Crowley has no desire to let any other demon see his naked arse. (Or Aziraphale’s naked arse.)

As it turned out, Hastur tuned in to BBC 3 mostly to gloat. But while he was doing so, he also delivered a warning. Fear of getting seen with his pants down suddenly was a laughable concern, as Hastur did his best to rub in how much trouble Crowley was in. The Opposition identified him as the demon who shot their agent in Milton Keynes and they were moving organised to find him.

“Aww, Crawly,” the smelly bastard smirked at him. Satan, but he hated how he said _Crawly._ He and Hastur never got along. As a generic rule, demons didn’t get along with each other or with anyone else, but it was more than a simple dislike between them. “I trust the pride of having received a condemnation from Prince Beelzebub makes up for the terror of the Opposition hunting you. What are you going to do now, Crawly? Slither off to the other side of the word like the vermin you are? Hide under a stone, hoping the Eyes of Heaven won’t find you there?” 

It isn’t the first time the ground gets too hot under Crowley’s feet, of course. If you spend 6000 years on Earth, walking the thin line between mischief and evil deeds, feeling fond of humans but trying to sell yourself as the superstar field agent in Hell, things are bound to go pear-shaped sometimes. He doesn’t like to pack up and leave from one day to the other, but he does it if he must. Hastur can taunt his rotten heart out, but Crowley knows Heaven won’t chase him through the whole planet. He did this before, moving somewhere far away and lying low for a decade or two, if that’s what it takes to get avenging angels off his back.

Only there was no Aziraphale in his life before. 

He foresaw a difficult conversation. He considered maybe Aziraphale wouldn’t want to leave his bookshop. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to come up with an elaborate excuse for Heaven why he wants to travel. What Crowley refused to consider was that maybe he wouldn’t want to go with him at all.

The other thing that never crossed his mind was if _Heaven_ knew about his encounter with that bastard of an angel, _Aziraphale_ would know about it too. It’s logical of course - if the Opposition is getting its agents ready to hunt him, why would they leave _his_ angel in the dark?

But not in his worst nightmares did Crowley imagine they will end up on different sides, as enemies. Because even if they are the representatives of Heaven and Hell, the two of them had their own alliance, they had their own side, didn’t they?

Didn’t they?

The answer to that question, as Crowley has learned today, was no. When push came to show, Aziraphale thought there was no “their side” at all.

So, Crowley is alone, again, accompanied by nobody but his own painful emotions. A demon who’s been rejected by the angel he loves. Haha, what a joke. The biggest joke of creation, yet Crowley can’t laugh. 

He should be fleeing, he should be getting his stuff and leaving. He should already be as far away from London as possible. Instead he’s sitting here, a few corners away from his place, trying to drown his sorrows. 

He gulps down what is left in his current tumbler and waves at the waiter for a refill. He might as well just ask for the whole bottle and save both of them the trouble. Surprisingly, instead of getting him his drink, the guy slides into the chair facing him. Amber chameleon eyes stare at Crowley, blinking eerily out of sync. _Fuck._

“Hail Satan,” the possessed man says.

“Ligur, hi,” Crowley tries to rearrange his expression from drunken self-pity to slick charm. He suspects he doesn’t much succeed. 

“Crawly, this is a warning from Lord Dagon,” the waiter drawls on Ligur’s voice. He clears his throat, and his voice disturbingly shifts to Dagon’s screeching tone. “Agents from Upstairs are closing in on you. Why are you still in London? Get the fuck out from there. If you survive the week, send in your report.”

“Wait, what…” Crowley starts, but the man stands up and blinks his completely average human eyes at him.

“Would you like anything else, sir?”

“Just the bill,” he answers weakly. _What about some help, you bastards,_ he thinks, although he very well knows that Hell doesn’t send help. If you are in trouble, it’s up to you to get out of it. It’s every demon for himself, he will be expected to show gratitude for receiving a word of warning at all. _If you survive the week,_ Jesus Christ, Dagon knows how to make a grim situation sound truly horrible.

He stumbles out to the bathroom and sobers up, grimacing at the sour taste the act leaves in his mouth and wincing as the hard-earned drunken haze lifts. Right. Time to leave this wet, windy country behind, he tells his image in the mirror above the sink. He can continue practicing being heartsick from Mallorca. It was a fun hundred years or so, London, but all nice things have come to an end. He just needs some sun, a couple of fancy cocktails in a bar at a beach and new sunglasses. He’ll buy a pair of those gigantic ones, that cover half of the face. He’ll forget about his blues in no time. (This is a lie, but he pretends otherwise.)

It’s raining outside, of course it does. One more reason to leave for the Mediterranean. Less rain, more sunshine and no angels hunting for him. (No angels offering shelter in a bookshop either.)

He hurries to the Bentley and slides behind the wheel. He opens the glovebox and takes his gun out. (It has been in his apartment just a moment ago, but it is no use for him there, so it is here with him now.) It worked once, it may work again. He pauses. Will they send Aziraphale after him too? Would Aziraphale hurt him? (Hurt him more than he already did with his words?) He shakes his head. That can’t happen. And he can’t afford thinking about Aziraphale right now. Survival first, yearning second. 

Time to hit the road on the fastest route to Dover. Rest of Europe is awaiting him at the other end of the Tunnel. Maybe he won’t settle down in one place for a while, but tour the sunnier, southern parts of the continent. Cava in Spain, Armagnac in France, Prosecco in Italy, Ouzo in Greece. Lying in the hot sand of beaches to please the snake in him, watching pretty humans in their minuscule swimsuits for the pleasure of his humanoid body. It’s all waiting for him. 

He doesn’t get past Blackfriars. There are two angels waiting for him on the bridge. It’s impossible not to spot them in their pearly white, classic Rolls Royce. Crowley has never known a car can radiate divine chastisement, but there you go, you always learn something new. It makes the Bentley shudders in her whole bodywork, the poor baby.

The sound that leaves Crowley’s throat is a surprising mix of a battle cry and a desperate yelp as he takes a reckless left turn, away from the river. He drives on the right side for a few long minutes, ignoring the panicking honks of the opposing traffic, slaloming between cars at a neck-breaking speed. It takes a handful of demonic miracles and the cooperation of his precious Bentley, but he pulls through. 

He drives up to the pavement to overtake a bus and some cyclists, muttering “Why are you screaming, you weren’t hit, were you,” at the pedestrians, honks and sticks two fingers up at a taxi driver who’s shouting something at him, before he gets back on the road, to the correct side this time. 

He risks a glimpse in the mirror. The Silver Wraith is just getting past the agitated taxi driver and accelerating to catch up with him again. Fuck. (Crowley gives his pursuers an extra point for driving style, but deducts ten thousand for being persistent, annoying bastards.)

Crowley grins. If it is a bit too wide, bit too maniac, bit too inhuman, who is there to judge him for it? He loves driving, has loved ever since he first replaced the black, mean steeds he has been riding throughout history for a loud, dirty, engine driven vehicle. Machines love him the way animals don’t, and his connection with the Bentley is truly special. She is his baby and he knows she’ll do everything to get him out of this situation. 

He steps on the accelerator, even if that’s more for show than for anything else, as it is his will running through the car’s engine and not petrol. 

The Bentley purrs obediently as it jumps ahead, speeding through the streets with well above a hundred miles per hour. Human traffic rules have always annoyed him. Now he ignores each and every one of them. James Bond, if he were there, would cower on the passenger seat seeing this supernatural car chase. 

The radio starts to play Don’t Stop Me Now, as Crowley grips the steering wheel in both hands and does the most insane, daring, suicidal manoeuvres his imagination can come up with. (And he has a very good imagination.)

_I'm a shooting star, leaping through the sky  
Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity  
I'm a racing car, passing by like Lady Godiva  
I'm gonna go, go, go  
There's no stopping me_

There are little sparks flying everywhere from the brake disc as he takes turns too sharp at unreasonable speed, the sides of the car shake as he drives through places too narrow for the Bentley to fit - yet she still fits through. There are no crashes, other drivers on the road avoid collisions _miraculously,_ although their cars do block the road as they step on their breaks in fright. Honking, cursing, yelling follows Crowley as he flies away on unnatural speed.

There’s a moment of whooping joy when he thinks he lost the angels but then the Rolls Royce emerges from behind a double-decker that turned sideways on the road. He managed to put some distance between themselves, but these persistent Heavenly jerks are still on his trail.

Gritting his teeth, he takes another sharp turn, back towards the Thames. Soon he is speeding through Tower Bridge and puts every thought he can spare into a miracle for the bridge to lift. It starts to do so, before it’s stopped by a countering angelic force. Crowley catches the moment in the mirror when the Rolls Royce flies over the gap. The driver seems to lose control momentarily when they land, the car skidding wildly on the whole width of the road, before they master it again and continue the chase. 

Crowley swears. It isn’t a very imaginative cursing as things go, just a litany of _shit, shit, fuck, shit,_ but he has to be excused for not being at his creative best under such pressure. He thinks the situation can hardly get any worse - but that is exactly what happens. As he’s just about the speed past Waterloo station he feels a... kind of a... _seeking presence_. (He doesn’t really have a word for how it feels. It’s not unlike as if an invisible, divine hand was prodding the streets. Or maybe it’s a hundred of eyes, sweeping the area unblinking, looking for something. For someone.) Crowley swears louder. He’s fairly sure this isn’t coming from the car chasing him. This is a third angel. The bloody bastards are ganging up on him. He’s surrounded.

He yanks on the handbrake and the Bentley slides into a tight parking spot it _just_ fits in. Another move that would make James Bond pale with envy and fear, but he can’t linger and be proud of it. He launches himself from his car and sprints into one of the ugly tower buildings that surround the station. The man at the reception doesn’t look up from his phone when he rushes by. He heard somewhere that in times of a crisis one shouldn't use the lift, so Crowley takes the stairs, two at the time. 

He’s wheezing by the time he reaches the fourth floor. He sternly tells his corporation to stop doing this. It’s not as if it really needs oxygen, it is just in the habit of breathing and finds it difficult to stop doing it right now, of all times. (It’s most definitely not in the habit of doing any kind of an exercise, especially not an intense one, like being chased up on stairs by a horde of rabid angels. The poor corporation is understandably confused by all this, the burning of lungs, the wobbling of legs, the protest of muscles.)

Crowley promises it that he’ll never put it through anything like this ever again, so can it keep up for now, _please,_ for their mutual interest? His body does its best, but it still feels like he’s going to cough up his lungs by the time he’s up on the eighth floor. 

Shit, but he needs to be silent. Crowley makes sure to be unseen by mortal eyes, like the receptionist’s, but there’s not much he can do about seeking ethereal ones. He needs to hide. He needs to find a strategic point where he can see his pursuers if they approach and he can be sure he will be able to make a move first. He has his gun - he will shoot them dead if needed.

(It’s not as if Aziraphale can despise him even more than he already does.)

He takes a break on the tenth floor. His lungs, no matter how he tells them they doesn’t need air to breathe, are on fire and his legs are rattling so badly it’s a wonder they still keep him upright. He considers hiding on this floor (it’s as good as any) when he sees the lift moving upstairs. Without any logical explanation, Crowley _knows_ it must be his pursuers. Call it a demonic instinct. 

He changes tactics. If they are coming up, he’ll just run down, get back in his car and speed away. He sneaks back to the staircase, but the voices echoing all the way up from the ground floor stop him.

“Are you sure, Hofniel, that he’s in this one?”

“I’m telling you; I can smell him. Don’t you sense this stench of evil, Zerachiel?”

“You know I don’t have your noise. Do we search the floors one by one?”

Going down the stairs is out of the question then. _I don’t stink,_ Crowley fumes, secretly happy to have something trivial to be annoyed about in his grave situation. Silent as a snake, he continues his ascend upstairs.

The door leading up to the roof is locked and alarmed, but it opens obediently enough when Crowley reaches it. Up here… is it the seventeenth floor? He lost count. Up this high the wind is strong and loud. At least the rainclouds have been mostly blown away. The view of London is quite breath-taking, and it’s a pity he’s not in the mood to appreciate it at all. 

Bringing his wings into existence on this plane requires a bit of concentration. It isn’t exactly painful, but they itch as they slowly materialise. Dark feathers, smelling strongly of smoke rustle around him as he shifts, stretching his wings out after such a long time. He extends them to their full width, testing their strength against the howling wind. 

Right. So. He’ll just… jump. Maybe gain some momentum with a short sprint before he flings himself over the edge of the roof. His wings have ceased to carry him upwards a very long time ago, but they should be good enough to allow him to saunter vaguely downwards. He gulps. It’s stupid to be nervous. This will be _nothing,_ compared to his Fall.

The door behind him bangs open. Crowley whirls around, yanking out his gun, cursing himself for delaying for so long. 

“Oh, bugger,” Aziraphale says, “it’s horribly windy up here, isn’t it?”

“No,” Crowley says, although not to argue the windiness. “Not you,” he lowers his gun, feeling lost. There’s no way he’s going to shoot _this_ angel. Of all agents Heaven sent after him, does it have to be him to find Crowley first?

“Crowley,” Aziraphale looks at him, taking in his harried state, his hopelessly windblown hair, his horrible wings, each and every dark feather marking him for the demon he is. 

“How did you get here?” he demands, suddenly angry. It’s bad enough to be hunted by random angels, but by the one he cares for is unbearable.

“I took the lift. My, ah, colleges, they are taking the stairs if you can believe it.” (Crowley can. It seemed like a good idea at the time for him too, but his knees are still shaking. He refuses to consider that might be due to anything else but the flight up the stairs.)

“It wasss you, wasn’t it?” he accuses, hissing. “That presence I felt before. You were looking for me.”

“That was me, yes,” Aziraphale admits. “But Crowley, we are…”

“An angel and a demon, I know.”

“No! I mean yes, but that’s beside the point. Crowley, I’ll apologise later I promise, but we’re running out of time here.”

“What?”

“I have a plan, my dear, but we need to time it well. Do you… I know it’s much to ask, after what happened today, but do you trust me?”

“I do,” Crowley says without thinking and finds that he means it. Aziraphale beams at him. Something shifts in Crowley and suddenly his grave situation doesn’t seem so hopeless anymore.

“Now, don’t be alarmed,” the angel warns, before he draws out a truly hideous, golden gun. He grabs Crowley by the wrist and drags him over to the edge of the roof, whispering hurried instructions. It is a desperate plan, but Crowley has not a single better idea.

When the two other angels burst through the door, (out of breath, Crowley notices with glee) they find him balancing on the brink. Aziraphale is standing a few steps away, with his back to them. He’s wearing a steely, determined expression, but Crowley’s focus is not on his face. He has his wings out, just as Crowley has, but where his are a tainted, oily black, Aziraphale’s are a brilliant, unblemished white. He has them opened wide, blocking the view and the path of the other two angels.

His wings are beautiful. Aziraphale added an extra, ethereal glow to them for the show and Crowley finds them utterly distracting. His eyes burn just by looking at them, but he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. He feels like a tiny bug, circling around a bright flame, too intoxicated to care if it burns him. His angel might be the last thing he’ll ever see and he wants to take a good look, to take everything in, from his handsome face, his storm-blue eyes, his pale curls which look much like windblown wool of sheep at the moment, his awful clothes and his magnificent, glorious wings.

“You were a wily adversary, demon,” Aziraphale says theatrically, extending his wings even wider to make sure the other two angels won’t be able to see him aiming his gun not-quite at Crowley. “But you have nowhere to run now. I am Principality Aziraphale and it is my honourable duty to stop you and your kind. Prepare to meet your... maker… well,” he falters for a moment but recovers. “Prepare to meet your fate.”

He fires the gun and even though the bullet whizzes away at a safe distance, Crowley is suddenly sure he wouldn’t have liked being hit by that. Aziraphale also flaps his great wings and Crowley lets himself be swept off the roof with the gust they create. 

He manages to grab the windowsill of the top floor at the very last moment. The blood is pounding loud in his ears as he clings at the side of the building like some misguided Spiderman. He feels the tiniest spark of an angelic miracle and the window next to him slides quietly open. He heaves himself into the dark and empty office behind it, and huddles close to the wall. 

(The windows so up high usually can’t be opened this wide, but this one is an exception. The employees of this particular office have all finished work early today. Another small miracle.) 

As the violent thundering of his pulse slowly quiets down, he manages to make out the voices coming from the rooftop above him. 

“...sure you got him, Aziraphale?”

“I’ve told you, I’m absolutely sure, Hofniel. Why, you make it sound as if I can’t get rid of some puny demon!”

“I haven’t meant it like that,” Hofniel placates. “You had a very good handle of the situation, we could tell.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale responds tightly. There’s a sudden realisation filling Crowley, an understanding of what exactly his angel is doing for him. Coming up with this scheme and lying to the other Heavenly agents to save a demon’s skin. 

“Did his body fall down?” the third angel asks. Her voice is coming from nearer - she’s probably peering over the edge.

“No, it dissolved on sight when the bullet hit him. Archangel Gabriel knows his blessings, I can assure you.”

“That’s right, of course,” the other two hastens to agree. “He knows what he’s doing.”

“He’s gone for good, but at least out of the Game for a while. Kemuel will be pleased to hear, he is now revenged.”

“Well then, old chap, good job here,” Hofniel says. “We’ll prepare our reports. Do you want a lift back to your place?”

“Oh, no, thank you, although that’s kind of you. There’s a lovely tea-house nearby I planned to try for a while now. See you at the next general meeting, my dear fellows.”

There are two sets of feet walking away. Crowley listens to Aziraphale shuffling about on the roof. Before long, a pair of sensible Oxford loafers appear at the top of the window, followed by tan trousers, a threadbare waistcoat with chain of a watch leading to one pocket, and the rest of Aziraphale, as he performs his own Spiderman act. (It fits him even less than it did Crowley.) He slides through the open window and closes it firmly behind him before he collapses on the floor next to Crowley. He’s shaking slightly.

“That was quite something, angel,” Crowley states the understatement of the century. He takes his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose. Aziraphale still has his wings out, just as he does, but they are no longer illuminated with Heavenly light. They no longer hurt his eyes. He is surprised to hear his own voice coming out so calm and collected - so many things have happened, his emotions are taking their time to catch up. Just a short while ago, he was driving his best ever through London, trying to escape some crazed angels chasing him, just to be saved by the one who so thoroughly captured then broken his heart.

“It went rather well, didn’t it? Aziraphale chuckles. He runs his fingers through his pale curls, although they already look totally ridiculous, having been puffed up by the wind. His hands are still shaking. 

It proves too much to think about everything that happened. Being sure he was finished for good but saved by this absurd Heavenly creature. It’s easier to focus on Aziraphale’s trembling hands and to be displeased by the sight. His angel shouldn’t be upset. He reaches out, takes his hand between his palms. That’s better.

Their eyes meet, and something shifts, the air becoming thick around them. It sinks further in; Aziraphale has sought him out to save him from his own brethren. Nobody has ever risked so much for him. Nobody ever cared enough. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says slowly. “I owe you an apology. The way I behaved earlier today…”

He never gets the chance to finish that sentence. Crowley launches himself at him, pushing him back flat on the ground as he straddles his thighs. He cradles his handsome, beautiful, angelic face between his hands and kisses him deeply. Aziraphale hand caresses the short hair on the back of his head as he kisses back.

“There’s nothing to apologise for,” Crowley croaks when they break apart for air neither of them needs. His voice is thick with tears he does his damned best not to shed. “Fuck, angel, nobody has ever… You saved me. What are you even apologising for? I… it’s me who has to thank you.”

Aziraphale sits up and they kiss again, slower, less desperate this time. His warm hands caress the black plumes of Crowley’s wings. 

“Beautiful,” the angel whispers and the demon doesn’t have the energy to protest. He is suddenly exhausted and can’t find it in himself to object to the way Aziraphale gently grooms his feathers. He sighs contently, burrowing deeper into the angel’s embrace. White wings rise around him, protecting him from the outer world. 

They stay like that for a long while. If up to Crowley, they could stay like that forever. He’s drained. It has been the longest day ever. He can’t quite believe he’s still alive and even less how everything seems to take a happy turn.

“How did you find me?” he asks after a while.

“With a bit of luck, I suppose,” Aziraphale hums, fingers still parting, straightening, caressing his feathers. “I couldn’t reach you on the phone, so I went to your apartment. You obviously weren't there. I wanted to go out to the airport, to catch you before you fly off to Italy, but… Crowley, did you know that Croydon was closed down? Why would they do that when it was functioning just perfectly? And I had to learn from a very cheeky taxi driver that there are now about six airports in London. What on Earth do humans need _six_ airports for in a single city? Where are they all _going?”_

“To Italy?” Crowley asks with an amused grin, that hopelessly fond feeling overtaking him again. He doesn’t mention his hand in the creation of the Luton airport.

“They could do that from one, and then it wouldn’t be impossible to find someone… well. Someone who wants to leave England after you argued with them, which then you later regretted. Anyway,” Aziraphale takes a deep breath and continues before Crowley has the chance to say anything, “You weren’t on any of the airports I managed to check.”

(Which was Heathrow only. Aziraphale doesn’t confess how the sheer size of the place and the crowds hurrying by overwhelmed him.)

“I wasn’t,” Crowley admits quietly.

“I was thinking maybe you’re already on an airplane in one of the other ports and I panicked a bit. I started to search London and found Hofniel and Zerachiel behaving very strangely. It didn’t take much to figure out who they were chasing. It is pure luck that I got to you first. I guess it was luck,” he adds more hesitantly. “Maybe it was something,” he waves his hand hesitantly, “that just had to happen.”

“I’m very glad you found me, angel,” Crowley sighs, burrowing deeper into his embrace. He’ll be embarrassed about being so clingy later. For now, he’s just immensely grateful to be with his angel. They stay like that for a long while, sitting on the floor of the empty office, legs and wings entwined in a tight embrace. 

Crowley is content to stay there for an eternity, on the ugly blue carpet, amongst the soulless grey office furniture. In the outside word there might be difficult discussions to have and vengeful angels hunting for him. Here, there are only Aziraphale’s warm hands and the love Crowley feels for him. 

Aziraphale sighs after a while and kisses his cheek gently, signalling the end to this wonderful, out of time and reality session.

“Let’s get back to the bookshop, dearest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter, also known as the Sex and the Epilogue should be up this weekend!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found myself hesitant to wrap this story up, so this last bit ended up being a chapter and an unplanned epilogue. It really grew on me and I had lot of fun writing this fic. If you’re here with me – thank you for your attention! I’d be super thrilled if you left a comment to let me know if you enjoyed. Or you know, even if you hated it, although I'll probably be less thrilled to hear that, but such is life!

It’s already dark outside when they finally emerge from the building. Aziraphale blinks owlishly – he completely lost track of time and he’s surprised to see night has started to fall. He doesn’t protest when Crowley herds him to his infernal car and slips on the passenger seat when the demon opens the door for him. (Even though he had been quite determined never going near “The Bentley” ever again.)

Crowley drives them back to the bookshop, at a considerably slower speed than last time, careful even. He must be even more exhausted than Aziraphale is, having been chased around by hostile angels before performing their grand act on the rooftop. 

They sit in silence for a while. There’s some traffic on Westminster bridge, so Aziraphale entertains himself with watching the people hurrying by (to do whatever urgent things Londoners do on Tuesday evenings), the tourists taking photos with the Palace of Westminster and the Big Ben in the background, the lights dancing on the dark waves of the Themes. He watches the reflection of Crowley’s profile in the window. 

“So, a Principality?” Crowley asks, maybe feeling his eyes on him even in this indirect way.

“I’m sorry, my dear?” he turns towards him. Crowley looks tired and pensive.

“You said you are Principality Aziraphale. Y’know. Before you shot me with your golden gun,” he grins at him, and he is devilishly handsome, even when he’s so knackered. Aziraphale forgets to remind him to keep his eyes on the road.

“I didn’t _shoot_ you,” he points out. “But yes,” he admits with a sigh, “a Principality. Did some guarding of the Eastern Gate back in the days.”

“The Eastern Gate.”

“In the Garden.”

“You were in the Garden?” Crowley asks, jerking his head towards him in surprise even though the row of cars have started moving. “I was there, too!”

“I don’t remember… oh, look, look ahead please, that car is… Crowley!”

“I was there, see” he pushes his glasses up on his forehead, gesturing at his eyes. “Ssse? Snake. Snake in the Garden? Get it?”

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale breathes as he _gets it_. “ _That_ snake?” He can see the flicker of uncertainty on the demon’s face. After Aziraphale’s cruel treatment earlier the day, it’s no wonder he’s nervous. “Well, my word. I didn’t know I was meeting with a real celebrity,” he says lightly. Crowley smiles at him gratefully and he smiles back until-

“Watch the… watch the road, Crowley! Are you trying to get us killed? _Look out_ for the pedestrians!”

Thanks the Almighty, Soho is not a long drive, and they survive the trip with all their limbs intact. They park on the spot Crowley once claimed he has a special permit for, although that’s probably not true, strictly speaking. 

“We’re here, angel,” Crowley states the obvious, “I’ll probably need to lay low for a while, but maybe I can see you after…”

“Just where do you think you’re going?” Aziraphale interrupts on a shrill voice. Panic rises in him. Surely Crowley can’t consider leaving the country just like that, after everything that happened to them today? “You better come in, so we can figure out the best tactic together.”

“I…” there’s a horrible moment when he thinks Crowley will decline him. “Are you sure about it, angel?”

“Of course I am, don’t be an idiot,” he says with relief. Crowley raises an eyebrow, but there’s an amused smile lurking at the corner of his lips. 

“Is our best tactic getting shitfaced so we forget about this day?” Crowley asks with a smirk, once they are both seated on the sofa in Aziraphale’s backroom with a bottle of wine open in front of them. Aziraphale swirls the cabernet sauvignon around in his glass pensively.

“Probably not,” he admits with a regretful sigh. 

“But we’re still going to do it,” Crowley is grinning now.

“The idea has some merit.”

“Let’s drink to that,” they clink their glasses together. “To humans and their most wonderful invention - alcohol,” Crowley toasts.

“I’d say those are books,” Aziraphale protests, but drinks, nevertheless. 

“Both alcohol and knowledge can lead to wonderful and horrible things,” Crowley nods sagely. They drink to that, too. 

“What is the impact you made on human life you’re most proud of? Or is that having Eve and Adam eat that apple? Tree of knowledge and… all that,” he waves a vague hand. They are on their second bottle at this point. The details of why the fruit of that tree was so forbidden has always been lost on him, but you know. Best not to speculate. 

(He still wonders why they haven’t met in the Garden. He remembers The Snake as an age-old story that has been told over and over again. He didn’t see the creature itself. He was probably too busy standing on the wall, wondering what may lie over the desert surrounding Eden to notice it slithering about. By the time that apple was eaten, the Snake was gone. He looked around for it after he gave his sword to Adam and closed the gate, making sure the humans could never come back. He was twitchy but oddly exited as well, having just learned he was to stay on Earth and do some further watching over and guarding, despite his spectacular failure on his apple tree duty. He was curious what creature caused all this ruckus, this frighteningly thrilling change. Six millennia later, and he finally knows. He’s still stirring up trouble and bringing forth changes, and he’s a wonderful, lovely being, this wily old serpent.)

“That’s a classic, isn’t it?” Crowley pours their glasses full again. “But nahhh, wouldn’t say that’s my favourite. The M25? Always felt that was a bit of underappreciated geniusness. If that’s a word. Y’know what I mean. No, wait! Freddie’s dress in It’s a Hard Life! If that’s not brilliant impact, I don’t know what is.”

“I’ll regret asking this,” Aziraphale waves his hand to miracle some crackers in from the kitchen, “but who is _Freddie?”_

“You can’t _not know,”_ Crowley gasps in fake shock, and he starts to pat himself for something. “Shit, I think I lost my phone.”

“I have it,” Aziraphale reassures and stands up to collect the gadget from his drawer. He uses the opportunity to put the gun away too, in what he hopes is a discreet manner. He fervently hopes he will never need it again. “I think it fell out of your pocket earlier when we were, uhmm. On the floor.”

“Right,” Crowley takes it. He’s blushing slightly. 

“It’s not a very smart phone,” Aziraphale points out, as the air suddenly feels tense and awkward. “I asked it where you were, and it didn’t say a thing.”

“That’s not how it works, angel,” Crowley snorts. “I’ll teach you later, but first, look,” he proceeds by bringing up a small moving picture on the tiny screen, where a very flamboyant gentleman starts to sing. His voice is pleasant, and the setting reminds Aziraphale of an opera. He quite enjoys it, the song and the theatrical costumes alike, although he still makes the expected horrified and sarcastic remarks when Crowley points out the devilish red outfit with the all-seeing eyes of God all over it, and the grim expression others are wearing in the video. 

“They really hated their outfits,” Crowley chuckles and it’s impish at most, not evil at all. “Freddie, of course, thrived in his.” 

_It's a long hard fight_

_To learn to care for each other_

_To trust in one another right from the start_

_When you're in love_

The singer tells a story about the hardships of love, but how it is still worth all grieves. The music, good wine and light banter helps Aziraphale to push his concerns to the back of his mind. Guilt for doubting and treating Crowley so bad earlier the day, anxiety for lying to his colleges and his boss about Crowley. For helping a demon escape. But he is a different kind of demon, he’s a different kind of creature than anyone else Aziraphale knows, isn’t he? Surely, Aziraphale has done the right thing. He couldn’t bear the idea of seeing him hurt. Something that his whole being tells him is right, _has to be_ right.

(This is not the first time Aziraphale is torn over his decisions, hoping he didn’t do wrong, but previously there always have been humans involved and not a demon.)

“Are you alright there, angel?” Crowley nudges his leg with his knee. “You went awfully quiet.”

“It’s just… It has been quite a day, hasn’t it my dear?” he asks with a tight smile.

“I thought we were getting drunk to avoid thinking about it?” there’s hesitancy on Crowley’s face, in his beautiful eyes. (His dark glasses have been abandoned a while ago.)

“I know, but…”

“I didn’t mean to shoot that flash bastard of an angel, Aziraphale,” he blurts suddenly. “Wasn’t… I wasn’t _hunting_ him or anything. I was just minding my own business and the next thing I know he is chasing me through half of London. He wasn’t lissstening to reason, no nothing. If he’s your friend…”

“Kemuel isn’t my friend. And he’s fine. He’ll get a new corporation in due course, one, I am sure, that will be even more annoyingly flawless than the last one. He’s an idiot,” he can’t stop himself from adding, honesty is fuelled by wine. He takes another sip while Crowley’s huffs, half amused, half surprised. “I’m glad he didn’t hurt you,” he adds in a quiet voice.

“It’s a wonder I managed to get him at all,” Crowley mutters. “‘M no good with a gun. Unlike _some people.”_

“You should see me with a sword,” Aziraphale smiles and he can’t help a proud little wiggle. Crowley licks his lips, and his gaze is suddenly hungry, his pupils in his snake eyes blowing wide.

“I want to make a pun about your mighty angelic sword,” he whispers, “but I don’t know where we are now with… y’know. Us. And sex.”

Aziraphale clasps his hands in his lap and takes about two seconds to think that question over. 

“I would very much like to continue with that, if you are amenable to the idea as well.”

“Amenable. That’s me. Never been anyone more amenable than me.”

“Good then,” Aziraphale whispers and kisses him. 

Soft as it starts, it turns into desperate very soon. Of everything that happened that day, thinking he will lose Crowley has been the absolute worst. He had been so stupid and so afraid, but they have the chance to get this right, the two of them. Crowley is clinging onto him, and the poor dear, it must have been even worse for him. 

“Darling,” Aziraphale tries to pull back, but Crowley follows, capturing his lips again. His long fingers are undoing Aziraphale’s bow tie, fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat. “My dearest,” he tries again, “let me take you to bed. The couch or the floor might not be our best option after such a tiring day.”

“So many surfaces we haven’t tried yet,” Crowley jokes, but he’s already on his feet, offering his hand to Aziraphale. 

The short trip up the stairs leading to the flat takes them quite a while. Crowley pushes him against the wall, snogging him quite thoroughly before they can start to climb them. He gets the demon rid of his jacket and unbuckles his belt in an attempt to sneak a hand into his tight jeans, although he doesn’t quite manage that with the extremely distracting way Crowley bites and sucks rough kisses onto his neck, where the wily thing managed to get the buttons of his shirt undone. 

Halfway up the stairs they take another break when somehow Aziraphale lands on his arse and Crowley clambers over him. Their shoes end up rolling down to the bottom of the stairs. Aziraphale pulls Crowley’s top over his head, mussing up his hair a bit. (It was far from being perfectly styled after their adventure on the roof anyway.) He then dishevels it for good, when he runs his fingers through the copper locks to drag him down for another through kiss.

By the time they reach the bedroom Crowley is in nothing but his trousers. It’s Aziraphale’s turn to push him against the door this time, to kiss his sharp collar bones, above his precious heart, then to suck his left nipple into his mouth. Crowley’s head hits the door with a small thud. He’s hissing, cursing softly, pulling on Aziraphale’s curls, a bit painful yet perfect. He has sparse chest hair, a wonderful copper colour, just a shade darker than on his head. Aziraphale does his best to kiss every inch of exposed skin, working his way down slowly towards the band of trousers, following the trail or coarse hair. Crowley’s unabashed moans urge him on. 

“Angel, angel,” he gasps when Aziraphale unbuttons his jeans and drags them over sharp hip bones and long, lean legs. “You were saying something about a bed.”

“That’s right, my dear,” Aziraphale would be embarrassed for his lack of self-control if he wasn’t too busy exploring Crowley’s inciting body. 

By the time they reach the bed they get each other out of all pieces of clothing. Although they have already spent a wonderful evening pleasuring each other on Crowley couch and an escapade on the bookshop’s floor (even if that was rather hurried and distraught) this is the first time they see each other fully naked. Crowley is beautiful with his sharp lines and his lithe, long limbs. There’s a moment of self-doubt when Aziraphale thinks about his own corporation with its soft, rounded shape. The padding of his belly that tells its tale about his love for good food and wine. His own shorter and much thicker legs. His pale skin and the white-blond, curly hair covering maybe too much of it. How does that all compare to Crowley’s elegant attractiveness? 

His insecurity is blissfully short-lived and is all but forgotten when Crowley _growls_ and pounces him, tackling him down on the bed. There’s a palpable hunger in him as he tries to touch Aziraphale everywhere at once, his fingers more grabbing than caressing and his mouth more biting than kissing. Objecting the rough treatment is the furthest thing in Aziraphale’s mind. He pushes up into Crowley’s touches, his fingers play with Crowley’s copper locks, but otherwise he’s quite content to lay back and enjoy this unique feeling of being wanted so much. 

“You’re going to leave marks, darling boy,” he says quite breathlessly when Crowley sucks a particularly bruising kiss just above his collar bone.

“Shit, sssorry angel,” Crowley raises his flushed face, lust clearing from his expression the tiniest bit. “Got carried away.”

“I haven’t said I minded,” he smiles at him, relishing in the way Crowley’s pupils are dilated, almost completely filling the gold of his iris. He embraces the demon’s slender body close before he rolls them over, deciding it is his turn to enjoy the other’s naked body under his. 

He is gentler but just as thorough as Crowley has been in his exploration. It’s thrilling, listening to his lover gasps, responding so beautifully to all adoring kisses, every teasing caress. 

“Ssso good, angel,” Crowley hisses, his back bent in a magnificent arch, as Aziraphale kisses his sharp hip bones inch by inch. His cock is flushed a violent red, curving up and slightly to the left against his flat belly. Aziraphale kisses it lightly and Crowley groans wantonly, throwing his legs open wild. Aziraphale cups his pert, lovely buttocks, fingers inching towards the hidden opening between them.

“My dear,” Aziraphale starts, “Would you…”

“Gosh, yes, angel,” Crowley bends his knees, raising his backside up from the bed slightly, not even waiting for him to finish his question. “Impale me on your mighty angelic sword.”

“I’m not sure this pun was worth bringing up again.”

“Fuck me, Aziraphale. Please?” he grins, as if Aziraphale is not reaching for his drawer already, to take out his dependable jar of - “Vaseline? We can just…” he snaps his fingers and Aziraphale gets what he means even without the actual miracle being cast.

“I prefer it the human way if you don’t mind. I rather enjoy the, ahh, _preparation_ that’s required,” he unscrews the lid to dip two fingers into the jelly, then holds them up to demonstrate what he means. 

“Ngk, nah, no. I mean, I don’t mind. S’good. Preparation,” Crowley’s serpent eyes follow the movement of his fingers. He is breathing fast and excited and Aziraphale’s own breaths speed up to match his. “How do you want to do this?”

“Would you mind putting that pillow under your… yes, like that, darling,” Crowley shuffles the cushion under his hips quickly. He pushes himself up on his elbows and watches as Aziraphale settles between his legs again. He sighs shakily when the angel circles the tight ring of muscle of his hole. He presses a single finger against it carefully and Crowley exhales again, relaxing visibly. He slips the finger inside easily enough with a careful, slow, but unrelenting push. “That’s it, so good, you’re doing so good, my dear.”

“Don’t… I’m not… Don’t tell me, I’m…” Crowley raises his head, but his glare has no strength behind it. He flops back and throws an arm over his eyes. “Shit, Aziraphale, I… need more, please.”

“Good? But you _are_ good, Crowley, my darling, beautiful boy,” he praises and if the next intake of breath is a bit shaky, he pretends not to notice. He adds a second finger carefully. Crowley opens up under his touch faster than a human would, but it’s alright. While he usually loves to take his time, he must admit that he’s feeling rather impatient himself. He wants Crowley more than any mortal lover he ever had before. He thinks, _he hopes_ they will have another time, maybe plenty of other times when they can take things as slow as he pleases.

Soon he has three fingers up Crowley’s lovely backside, moving them carefully, curving them slightly, wondering how much the demon’s corporation follows a human male’s where it’s not so obvious, when he touches the bundle of nerves he’s looking for. He presses against it experimentally. Crowley’s whole body shudders in pleasure. He slams both arms down on the bed, fisting the sheets in a desperate grab as he pushes his hips back, thrusting against Aziraphale’s fingers with a wordless demand. The angel obeys, brushing against that spot again and again, watching in fascination as Crowley shakes apart under him. 

“I was wondering if you have this little, ahh… addition,” Aziraphale whispers, twisting his fingers until his thumb faces upwards, so he can caress the velvety skin under Crowley’s testicles with it. He’s rewarded with a long sequence of sputtering noises before the demon manages to utter something resembling a response.

“Yeah, it… _Jesus…_ took me a while, y’know. Figuring out what, _yes, there again, ah..._ figuring out what they enjoyed ‘bout this so much, but… it’s brilliant. Angel, _fuck,_ I need you, _now.”_

“Yes, I want you so much, Crowley,” Aziraphale admits, withdrawing his fingers and greasing his cock with a generous amount of jelly.

(Vaseline, in Aziraphale’s opinion, is one of the better inventions of the 19th century. He has been a faithful customer of the brand since he was introduced to it in a fine, discreet Gentlemen’s club back in the days. He has never heard of water or silicone based lubricants, which is not surprising, considering he took abstinence from the mutual kind of pleasure in the last hundred years or so, hence no human lover could update him on more modern lubes. Vaseline works perfectly when he uses it for pleasuring himself and Crowley is currently way too far gone to complain about its oily stickiness.) 

“Angel, me too, need you,” they share a tender kiss, ignoring the demands of their bodies just for the moment. 

Crowley pulls his knees up to his chest, allowing easy access to his body. Aziraphale appreciates his flexibility in a hazy sort of way, focused as he is on positioning his cock, and pushing carefully inside. Crowley’s body lets him in with little resistance, hot and slick and perfect. Aziraphale breaches him with shallow little thrusts, ignoring the urgency of his arousal as much as he can, allowing Crowley time to adjust to his girth. Once he bottoms out, Crowley’s body clamps down around him as if it’s desperate to keep him inside. Aziraphale has to take a few deep breaths to fight off the imminent orgasm that threatens to overtake him, due to that thought just as much as to the feeling that tightness around his member.

Crowley is biting his lips and his eyes are closed. He peers up from under thick eyelashes when Aziraphale caresses his face. 

“Alright there, dearest?”

“Yeah, I’m… yeah. Can you move now, angel?”

Aziraphale can and does, pulling out carefully before he thrusts back, putting his back to it this time. Crowley gasps and winds his legs around his waist, pushing his hips back, meeting his thrusts.

“Still good, darling?”

“Shit, yeah, give me more, angel.”

Aziraphale tries his best to make it last, he really does. He wants to make this occasion memorable for Crowley and he also wants to cherish and remember every moment of their lovemaking. But he finds it impossible to do anything more sophisticated than to grab the back of Crowley’s thigh with one hand to keep him in place, balance himself on his other arm next to the demon’s head and to pound his body with desperate, deep thrusts. 

How could he do anything else when Crowley’s mouth is slack and his face is flushed in pleasure? When he’s moaning in abandon and meeting all of Aziraphale’s movements with his own?

His hands end up across Aziraphale’s back, fingers digging into soft flesh painfully, and the thought that they will leave a mark just fuels the angel’s desperate passion further. Crowley is gasping obscene, naughty things, like _that’s it, fuck me_ and _want you, more, harder, I can take it_ and _your cock, fuck, your cock, angel, so good, so good._

There’s nothing elevated about this, just the inherent movement of body against body, obeying the same rules that humans do, since the beginning of time and _fuck,_ but Aziraphale wouldn’t want it any other way. The heat of Crowley’s body, no, the heat of his whole being under him, the wet slap of flesh meeting flesh, the connection of their whole selves. He wants it to last forever, this union, but he knows it will be over very soon.

“Crowley, love, I don’t think I can last,” he gasps. Snake-eyes fly open, looking up at him in wonder and Aziraphale finds he knows what the demon is thinking, he knows what he wants so he repeats the word, again and again. He can worry about it later. “Love, my love, my beautiful love,” he chants. 

Crowley’s body clenches around him, almost violently. His back arches back in an exquisite bow as he comes, spilling between their bodies in long squirts without a touch to his cock from any of them. Aziraphale grabs his hips more firmly to chase his own pleasure and finds it in a few, brutal thrusts.

He slips out gingerly when he comes down from his hight and clambers off from Crowley, hoping he wasn’t too heavy. He’s also hoping, rather feverishly, that Crowley doesn’t mind him saying, calling him… And that maybe, maybe that he has similar feelings. He’s a demon, Aziraphale _is_ aware of that, but he’s not like other demon, is he? (He knows Crowley is different, so why this sudden insecurity?)

He rolls on his back, staring up at the ceiling as if something interesting is there. Crowley shifts to his side, propping up on his elbow as he looks at him.

“I swear,” he says at last, “it feels my whole arse is covered in a _bucket_ of Vaseline. Inside and out,” he shifts, and from the corner of his eyes, Aziraphale can see him grimacing. Maybe they just won’t mention what happened, pretend Crowley never heard what Aziraphale said. Which is, let’s be frank, Aziraphale’s preferred coping mechanism for anything too complex and contradictory. 

“I can just,” he raises his hand, preparing to miracle lubricant, sweat and semen away, but Crowley grabs his wrist then kisses the back of his hand gently.

“No need just yet. I don’t mind having, uhh, y’know. A bit from you inside. Ssslippery, but not in a bad way. Maybe less Vaseline next time, though.”

Aziraphale smiles, pulls him close to kiss him. Crowley settles in, snuggling close, wrapping arms and legs around his shorter, stockier frame. Aziraphale wonders if it’s a snake thing, seeking the heat of another body. He certainly doesn’t mind sharing warmth. He pulls a blanket over them and Crowley sighs contently.

He lets his mind wonder, not of what they should do now or what the future holds for them after today, but about pleasant things, getting lunch together again, or going for a play. Easy, carefree things. He almost jumps in surprise when Crowley speaks.

“Angel? Me too. Y’know. Feel the same way.”

A rush of warmth spreads through Aziraphale’s body and he tightens his arm around his lover’s wiry frame. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this happy in his existence. 

“You hardly even know me, you silly old serpent” he feels obliged to point out, but Crowley is too busy faking sleep to answer. 

***

Crowley spends the week cheerfully ignoring reality. 

They agree it would be dangerous for him to go outside. They can’t risk being seen by Aziraphale’s colleges, not when Heaven thinks he was discorporated if not destroyed for good. 

He stays in the angel’s tiny flat above the bookshop. It would be, of course, more logical to isolate himself in his own apartment, but neither of them mentions that. Aziraphale’s place is hardly more than a room with a bed, an armchair and way too many books. He has a small kitchenette and a minuscule bathroom that hosts a gigantic bathtub, defying all laws of physics. Crowley miracles in the necessities from his flat. His laptop to write a report for Head Office, claiming how he managed to fool the opposition. The designer clothes from his wardrobe, not that he needs them right now. The tartan scarf that once belonged to Aziraphale, but Crowley now considers it his. His telly, which offers him the same channels it did at home, as Crowley has never had any subscription plan in the first place, just expected the device to show him what he wanted to see, so it did.

Aziraphale opens his shop for a few hours every day, at chaotic intervals, but otherwise spends his time upstairs with Crowley. They watch the telly, eat food they order in, bicker about silly things and have sex on every available surface. (The gigantic tub is a touch of genius, Crowley now has to admit.) Aziraphale goes over to his place to mist the plants once.

(He listens to Crowley’s ranting about how much water each of them needs and _for Someone’s sake, be firm with them, don’t think they can do whatever they want just because I’m not there,_ before he pats Crowley’s arm cheerfully and tells him not to worry. Crowley of course worries, he just knows Aziraphale is bound to spoil them.)

He also goes to a short assignment and although he’s back in less than half a day, Crowley jumps him as soon as he’s through the door. They stumble to the bed and fuck with a fervour as if they were apart for years.

It’s the bloody best week of his life. Crowley knows it can’t last for long, but he’s still not prepared for it to end. One morning he wakes up to Aziraphale pacing the short length of the room nervously. He tells Crowley he needs to step out for a few hours. He doesn’t say where he is going and the demon doesn’t ask, but he suspects it’s time for him to give his report to Heaven on what happened at the top of the tower building.

Crowley spends that day sitting in the armchair, staring gloomily at his own naked feet. (He hasn’t bothered with too many clothes this last week, doing nothing but hiding in Aziraphale’s flat. A loose pair of trousers, a comfortable t-shirt seemed more than adequate. Shoes would make him feel overdressed too.) He hopes the angel will be safe. He hopes Heaven won’t give him trouble - Crowley’s memories of the place had been mostly erased, but he doesn’t recall Upper Management being very pleasant. He hopes against hope that Aziraphale will just come home and they can continue as before, carefree and ignorant of the outside world. 

He’s back by afternoon - when Crowley hears his steps coming up the stairs, some of the tension leaves his body. He scrambles for his laptop, to pretend he was busy and not staring at the door the whole day.

“Hello, darling boy,” Aziraphale kisses him on the lips, and Crowley relaxes further. If they are kissing, surely it can’t be too bad?

“What’s the word on the streets, angel?”

“Oh, I… well, funny you ask. Can we talk?”

“I thought we were talking,” Crowley points out, anxiety rushing back. 

“Of course,” Aziraphale chuckles, sounding just as nervous as he feels. “I was thinking. I’m not sure if it’s the best for you, being locked up here. And we don’t even know for how long, do we?”

“Right,” he agrees with a heavy heart. “Right, angel. I overstepped your welcome. I’ll slither back to mine and…”

“That’s still just you hunkering down inside, isn’t it?” Aziraphale interrupts sharply. “Not very stimulating, is it?”

“Right…” Crowley has no idea where this is going. “S’just all the angels in the area got my photo, you said it yourself.”

“That is correct,” Aziraphale chirps with fake cheerfulness. “It’s not very safe for you in this country for a while.”

“You want me to… leave? The country?” which is a logical thing, but he never thought the angel would just send him away. 

“You’ve been mentioning Italy…”

“Right,” he snaps, standing up, “there’s no need for you to,” he waves his hand around in agitation, “to… spell it out for me. I’ll be going.”

“Crowley,” something in Aziraphale’s tone stops him. He turns back. “I was rather hoping to go with you.”

He gapes at him, at loss for words for a long minute.

“You… what?” he croaks at last.

“Gabriel was… in a good mood today and he was easy to convince that my, ah, my experience in demon-hunting could be useful in other parts of the world as well. I suggested Italy, and he was alright with that. He probably thinks it’s the Roman empire over there still, as he was mentioning something about Caesar. Anyhow, if you still want to go, and you wouldn’t terribly mind me tagging along…”

Crowley is in front of him in an instant, sweeping him into his arms and kissing him hungrily. 

“Angel, I... I would go to the end of the world with you,” there’s a stinging in his eyes, that he’s doing his damned best to ignore. Aziraphale kisses him, slower this time. His eyes are also rather wet. Wordlessly they agree they’ll both pretend they are not crying. 

They load the boot of the Bentley a week later. Well. Aziraphale does. Crowley’s own package is a few, select pieces of high-fashion clothes and shoes and his laptop. Aziraphale spends two days packing, pulling out hideous and old-fashioned suitcases from the devil-knows-where and cramming them full of books. He then adds his beauty products of which he owns a surprising variety of. (I’m sure they sell aftershave and hand cream in Italy too, angel, Crowley whines, but he is ignored.) He proceeds to fill all remaining space with horrible and unsuitable pieces of clothing, as if he’d need sweaters, waistcoats and of course bow ties in Sicily in April. 

The Bentley doesn’t have so much storage space, but that doesn’t keep Aziraphale back from fitting everything in still. (Must be the same trick as he did with the bathtub.) He then blesses the bookshop so hard that Crowley shakes where he’s sitting behind the wheel, waiting impatiently. No burglar will even think about going near the building, but possibly the whole block for a century.

“Off we go.” Aziraphale says cheerfully, sliding onto the seat next to him finally. “Let’s get a wiggle on. I packed some biscuits in case we get peckish,” he holds up a tartan tin box, “and some tea,” he shows an equally tartan bottle. “We are now ready for the journey. Oh wait, I hope I didn’t forget to…”

Crowley’s leg slams down on the accelerator and the Bentley jumps ahead on the road. He wouldn’t be able to cope with the angel going back and checking if everything is in order for the fifth time. 

He mostly ignores Aziraphale’s protests that he’s going too fast, so they arrive in France in no time. (Pity he can’t make the travel through the Tunnel any faster.) It’s the first time he’s taking the Bentley on an international road trip, and he’s slightly unprepared for the unreasonable right-hand traffic of the continent. They have a few near-miss collisions (only saved by some angelic and demonic miracles) before he accepts, he has to slow down temporarily.

Aziraphale confesses he’s not very fond of Paris, after his last visit under the Reign of Terror didn’t go very smoothly. It takes Crowley a while to tease the whole story out of him, and then he has to pull down to the side of the road until he gets his laughter under control. Aziraphale refuses to talk to him for an hour, until Crowley promises to find some decent crepes for him. 

They take a detour in Provence, delaying quite longer than they first plan, but there are always more food and wine to taste. Aziraphale, for a being who spent six millennia on Earth and learned all the major and many of the minor languages ever spoken, has a surprisingly abysmal grasp on French. The locals classify him as hopelessly British. Crowley enjoys helping him with his little chit-chats in wineries and reading the menus for him in restaurants. 

It takes them another few weeks to reach Sicily, but they just _have to_ stop in Pisa to check if the little bistro Aziraphale visited before the Great War (the first one) is still in business. It’s not, but there are plenty others to make up for it. Then they end up in Florence, telling each other stories about various pieces of art when they visit the Uffizi Gallery, and there are quite a few which they have happened to oversee the creation of.

Rome proves to be a week-long detour. Aziraphale tempts him (pressures him) into trying oysters, something Crowley was happy to go without in his earthly existence so far and would have preferred to continue to do so. But Aziraphale feels his oyster-virginity just won’t do and watches him expectantly as Crowley tries to bring himself to swallow the slimy, revolting things. That episode aside, they have a grand time in Rome. They both spent quite some time here over centuries long gone by. Crowley can’t help but despair just a bit for missing each other for so long. 

After a last stop in Napoli they take the ferry to Sicily. There is a small villa waiting for them near Palermo, wondrously empty and ready to be rented. Crowley names one of the rooms his greenery and proceeds to miracle all his plants over, one by one. He’s drained by the time he finishes (London is quite a distance away), but he’s satisfied to see none of them dared to slack and dry up, despite not being watered for weeks.

Crowley staggers out to the tiny but lush garden, where his angel is standing with his face turned towards the clear, blue sky, basking in the late afternoon sun. Crowley watches in silence, his demonic heart filled to the brim with love and affection. Aziraphale notices his presence after a while. He beams at him, brighter than the Mediterranean sun, holds out his hands for him and Crowley joins him in this little earthly Paradise.

They may have missed out a lot, not knowing each other under thousands of years that passed by, but maybe it doesn’t matter. They have all the time in the world to make up for that lost time. 

**FIN**

  
  
  
  



End file.
